Of Comic Cons, Cacti, Rock Stars & Hard Candy
by Celesteennui
Summary: FutureFic. In the wake of a shitty breakup, Dave's path crosses with that of the last person he ever expected to see again. A How-To on getting over life's nasty little curveballs all wrapped up in humor, drama, insanity and tied with a smutty bow.
1. Release The Kraken

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

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In general, Dave Karofsky's birthdays almost always turned into flaming disasters. Not the fun, hot-guys-in-multicolored-Speedos flaming, either, but the horrifying today-is-the-day-you-discover-the-taste-of-napalm sort of flaming. In other words, _never fucking good_. When he was five the neighbor's dog had gotten loose and bitten him on the leg; that was five stitches and a lifelong fear of chow chows. When he was nine the new bike his parents had bought him had a flawed chain and he'd been unable to stop before speeding down a hill; that was twelve stitches and his first concussion. At thirteen he'd gotten his first hint that he might be gay when a game of spin the bottle had him kissing Elle Perkins and wishing it had landed on her brother; that was the start of depression that followed him through his teens. Seventeen…seventeen was the worst of them and had gotten him expelled, but that wasn't really why it bothered him.

Given all of those shitty, shitty events Dave could hardly be surprised that day he turned twenty-seven became a topper for his birthday debacles.

The day had started out rough to begin with just because of where he was waking up; LA was perhaps Dave's least favorite place in the world to visit and his _definite_ least favorite to attend Con in. Usually he could tolerate the innate craziness of the geeks and freaks that came out, because, for the most part they were all just overenthusiastic—_overgrown_—kids who wanted to show their appreciation. Granted some appreciation was goddamn creepy (he was thinking specifically of the huge guy dressed as Simon Denny who asked for a lock of his hair) and the LA Comic Cons had always seemed to breed that sort of stuff better than any of the other conventions put together. The boiling LA weather did not help things either particularly when combined with the…_ripeness_ of so many con-goers. LACC 2020 had _not_ an exception to the rule by any means.

He had wanted to leave on the 19th, the day before his birthday, right after his and Kyle's (his best friend and creative partner) last panels had been taken care of. Annabeth, their handler/agent/editor/semi-constant-pain-in-the-ass, however, would not even _hear_ of Saladin Comics' most prominent duo skipping out on the LACC closing festivities. The not hearing part was literal too; she had actually shoved her fingers into her ears and started singing loudly when Dave brought up leaving early.

Kyle, usually one to sit back and enjoy Dave's con-related anguish—_the bitch_—had surprised him by swiping the return tickets from Annabeth and getting them bumped from the noon flight on the 19th up a few hours to the three AM red-eye. Well, Dave's and her own tickets, anyway. As an extra little gift for Dave, Kyle had also gotten Annabeth's ticket switched from premium to coach on the eight PM flight. He thought the last part was a tad excessive, at least until Annabeth got bombed at the closing party at the Hilton and began to rant on what a waste a man like he was on the gay community. At that point he was only too happy to slip out with Kyle, head back to their lodgings, grab his bags, and hit LAX. He also may or may not have sent a picture of Annabeth making out with another uppity blonde to her boyfriend; he hadn't used his phone to do it so no one could prove _anything_.

LAX proved to be a beast of epically new proportions, though, which was saying something considering Dave already imagined it as a Chimera in his head. First he got slight wood during the pat down which the guard, a mediocre piece of ass at _best_, noticed and promptly had a female coworker switch him places. Dave nearly killed himself on the spot, especially when the _new_ security guard, brushed a hand over his…_problem_, and referred to him as "big-boy" for the rest of the humiliating experience. By the time he caught up with Kyle—who was grinning like she _knew_ what had gone down—Dave felt like he'd been molested. Which, horrifyingly enough, _did_ _not kill his boner. _He spent almost an hour in the men's restroom trying to fix that, which made jacking off a _very_ productive activity considering their goddamned flight had been delayed four hours.

The two hours between the worst masturbation of his life and boarding the plane were occupied with keeping Kyle awake. Trips like this messed his BFF up more than anything else (not including her pixie-stick and espresso binge their sophomore year) and if she fell asleep before boarding nothing short of a damn earthquake was going to get her up. At least not until the Sandman was paid his nine-hour dues, anyway. It was a thankless job as sleepy-Kyle was the grumpiest of all Kyles and would occasionally throw a petulant kick to his shins. Dave came dangerously close to drugging her with an Ambien and bribing an attendant to stow her ass in with the pets, but he managed to grit his teeth and remember how nice she'd been with the tickets. Plus he only had like sixty bucks in his wallet; you couldn't bribe a fucking girl scout with that.

Once they finally made it onto the plane though, things quieted down…For about half the trip. Both Dave and Kyle got into their seats and conked out at once sleeping through take off and a few bumpy patches. Dave's bladder woke him up somewhere over Indiana and after taking care of business he found it impossible to drift off again. Mostly thanks to that chatty cunts in the row behind them who wouldn't shut up and he kicked himself for not taking an Ambien himself. His one consolation was that his silly, silly best friend had worn a bustier with a low cut tank top _and_ had stuffed a set of waterproof markers into her bag along with her sketchpad.

Kyle's just-in-case-I-get-an-idea kit morphed into Dave's I'm-going-to-put-some-temporary-tattoos-on-these-G-Cups-because-it's-my-birthday-so-she-probably-won't-kill-me kit. Dave's drawing skills were no way near Kyle's level of perfection, but he thought the flaming heart he drew right in the center was pretty damn good _and_ his Pegasus didn't look _too_ much like a dog. There was going to be a shit-storm for it but because Kyle slept like the dead _and_ had worn a jacket which he could conveniently zip right up over his handiwork, there would be some time to savor the prank. The best part was one of the stewardesses asked Dave if he'd like a drink while he was in the middle of the Pegasus so he was able to doodle a few stars while sipping rum and coke.

The last hour or so of the flight Dave managed a light doze (probably thanks to the drink) coming around again when Kyle started stretching. She didn't notice her jacket had been done up at all, nor did she move to take the zipper back down, Kyle just asked the waitress for some coffee and laid her head on Dave's chest, muttering on how glad she was to be the fuck out of _Hell A_. He hugged her with one arm and agreed with a straight face any professional actor would have _killed_ for.

November had never felt so good in New Haven as far as Dave was concerned. It was like a whole different world full of red, gold, orange and cool air, a _much _better alternative to LA's ungodly heat wave and smoggy concrete. If he wasn't so damn drained and eager to get home, he would have kissed the pavement.

"So you called Jude and let him know our schedule got weird, right?" he asked as he and Kyle shuffled through the baggage claim. "He'll be picking us up?"

Kyle's dark gray-blue eyes shifted away from his as she bit her plush lower lip. "Um…"

"God d_ammit,_ Kyle!" he groaned, both palms going to his face as he fought down the urge to eviscerate his BFF. Murdering her before they completed the Dead Gods Saga would earn him fan wrath and that was _not _something he really wanted to tangle with.

Kyle pushed his arm and rolled her eyes. "Chillax, baby, I made arrangements when you had your little _security_ issue yesterday." Dave turned red, instinctively moving a hand to block view of his crotch. His best friend cackled and Dave again fought down his most basic of throttling impulses. Kyle either did not notice or did not care (most likely the second one) her concentration more focused on grabbing her bags off the belt. She succeeded and captured Dave's as well, tossing it to him easily despite the bulk; the woman was no shrinking violet, sequined flats and doe-eyes be damned. "Though, Jude isn't our ride."

"Okay…well, who—" Dave's query was cut short as a very fluffy bronze head attached to lithe frame crashed into his right side. His suitcase toppled over, all focus going to keeping his body upright and not hitting the linoleum like a sack of potatoes. He smiled down at his tackler despite the slight pain in his side.

"Davey!" Bryce, his and Kyle's longtime friend, practically squealed, hugging at Dave like they _hadn't _seen him less than a week ago. The other man kissed both of his cheeks before leaping over to Kyle and attempting to give her the same welcome. Bryce got about an inch a way before Kyle had both palms flat against his chest, a warning glare in place that would make a shark think twice.

"Down, boy," she ordered. Kyle was always grumpy after she just woke up and it generally lasted a few hours into the "morning", or until a half-gallon of espresso went in her. "We've been over this before, Bryce, do _not_ make me get out the newspaper and whack your fuckin' nose."

Bryce was hardly put off by Kyle's bitchiness; like everyone who knew her well enough, the brunette had long ago discovered the more dickish Kyle's attitude toward someone, the more she loved them. That was why she gave Dave and Jude so much crap. It was also possibly why everyone who loved her had slipped her a sleeping pill at some point.

Bryce's brown eyes grew to a comical size and his best impression of a puppy took over. It was a pretty good impression. "But—but, _Kylie! _I love you! I've missed you! Scratch my ears! Rub my belly! Love me! _Love me!_" He got a little loud on the last bit, dropping to his knees and wrapping both arms around Kyle's legs. The look on Kyle's face suggested she was contemplating the benefits of murder in the middle of an airport and the stares of at least two hundred people while Bryce rubbed his cheek against her hip. Dave, of course, was laughing his ass off.

"Ugh-oh was there a hug fight?" a new, but still familiar voice, interrupted Dave's cackling. He turned to his left, where the newcomer, a tall dusky-skinned man with chiseled features and neatly trimmed facial hair, better known as Rafe (or Ro-Blow, depending on how may drinks had been had), stood. Dave gave him a "no shit" smirk and Rafe just shook his head before the two of them bumped fists and man-hugged (one arm and little chest bumpage). "Welcome home, Horse. How'd the west coast treat you?"

It was Dave's turn to shake his head. "Man, _fuck_ L.A., that's all I've got to say. I'll take Connecticut snow and sanity over that shithole's sun, silicon, and utter idiocy _any_ time." They both chuckled, Dave for a slightly different reason; Kyle had given up the fight and allowed Bryce to hug her—which he did with _way_ too much enthusiasm for someone who wasn't into pussy.

"Speaking of sun and silicon," Dave turned back to Rafe with his left eyebrow cocked, "what are _you _doin' here? I thought you and the little mister," he gestured to Bryce, "were goin' to Sydney until after Turkey Day?"

Bryce's attention was off of Kyle in less than a second and he rushed to explain before Rafe had done more than open his mouth. Kyle, just relieved to have been released from the "Hugbox", swayed a bit and straightened her hair and jacket, shooting Dave a glare that _dared_ him to joke as she did it.

"Oh _that's _a fun story," Bryce's tone was instantly snotty as he trotted in between his husband and Dave. By the way Rafe was flinching and rubbing the back of his neck Dave would bet that it indeed _was. _"_Someone_," the word was punctuated with the dramatic waving of Bryce's arms, "is on the No-Fly list now because he has to argue with air marshals on whether or not he _is_ allowed to have his laptop on during take-off."

"Dude," Kyle murmured _exactly _what Dave was thinking as she made it over, luggage towed behind her. "For real? I know you're a workaholic but…"

"He's an _idiot_ that's what he is," Bryce growled, arms crossed tightly over his chest as he glared at Rafe who was staring down like kid getting dressed down by a teacher. "The only thing saving his ass from jail time was probably the fact the guy was jumpy and tasered him without real cause—"

Dave couldn't help himself. "_Aw, they tased you, bro_?"

"Oh my _God_, _YES_!" Kyle laughed maniacally, fist bumping him. "That just earned you a lap dance at Chip 'N' Dale's next time we go!"

Feigning shock Dave put at hand over his heart. "Hey, _two_, don't forget one's coming for my birthday!"

"Ooh-ho, someone's pushing for a double-team," Kyle said with a wink.

The lewd reply Dave was going to make was cut off by the petulant stomping of Bryce's foot. "Dammit, you two! This is not funny! He can't fly for business until we clear up the mess and, most importantly," another glare went to Rafe, "_I did __**not**__ get my romantic anniversary on a moonlit beach_!"

The taste of brimstone was palpable through the burning light in Bryce's eyes, like sirens warning of the imminent core meltdown of a nuclear power plant. Angry wasn't something that Bryce got very often. He fit the definition of gay so goddamn well, happy, parade-marching, cock-loving, that Dave, Kyle, and a few of their other friends had once drunkenly called the Webster's people to have the guy's picture put beside the definition (it didn't work out). But when Bryce did happen to go off it was something Dave wished _no one_ to be on the receiving end of. So, to save Rafe (and more importantly secure that ride home for his jet-lagged ass) he stepped in.

"So, I got to meet Alexander Skarsgard in L.A.," Dave said putting an arm over Bryce's shoulders. "Got you his autograph."

Bryce was putty in his hands within a nano second, bouncing on the balls of his feet and demanding every detail about the encounter in a high pitched, fluttery voice. Out of the corner of his eye Dave saw Rafe let out a breath, mouthing a "thank you" to him; Dave wordlessly kicked his suitcase and handed his carry on over to the taller man. Rafe made no arguments, and, with Kyle giggling at his heels, lead the way to the car, Dave's luggage carefully balanced in his arms.

The relatively short drive from New Haven to West Haven was spent less appeasing Bryce, who had gotten a phone call from his sister and therefore _had_ to take it, and more sorting through mail. Dave's email was comprised almost entirely of birthday tidings from "The In-Laws", as he referred to Kyle's family who had pretty much adopted him into the clan, and friends. As much as Dave dreaded his birthdays it was hard for him not to get all warm and fuzzy when there were pictures of his pseudo-nephews holding up a finger-painted sign that read "Happy B-Day Unkle Davey!". The warmest and fuzziest of them all, though, was an angry rant from Annabeth that was headed with the eloquent "You Assholes". Dave didn't read it but Kyle and he, who'd discovered it on her phone as well, shared a devious glance and chuckled over it. There was only one thing that bothered him as he went through his inbox and voicemail, a message from Nathan was in neither.

Nathan was a lot of things, depending on who you asked. To Dave he was his boyfriend of little over a year. To Kyle he was a snooty, manipulative little shit who needed a reality check. Though, to be fair, Nathan had never assumed Jude or Maggie was Dave's housekeeper upon meeting or drank Claire or Vince's clearly marked chai tea lattes from the fridge at midnight without asking, so… To Dave's other friends, well, they usually just kept their mouths shut when it came to Nathan, because _unlike_ Kyle most of them did need to voice opinions about things they didn't have a say in. None of them, however, ever bothered to correct Kyle so Dave was pretty sure his inner circle wouldn't be waving a flag for his boyfriend any time soon.

Arguing that Nathan wasn't occasionally an arrogant little cunt wasn't something that Dave could do because, honestly, he _was_. Truth be told, that was part of the appeal; femme guys with a 'tude had been Dave's kink since his first fucking crush in the sixth grade and if Nathan did _anything _well it was look cute while throwing a bitch-fit. Naked. While riding Dave.

Despite the explosive sex, though, Dave liked to think that the two of them had more going on than just that, hence the clench in his chest when he found no messages from him. It didn't help that their last conversation had basically been an argument thinly veiled as bathroom fucking over a week beforehand. Dave had been trying to convince Nathan to go home with him for the holidays, home being Kyle's parents' house in Nevada. Nathan had protested the idea vehemently, citing a thousand bogus sounding excuses before they'd gotten carried away and had to go relieve the tension with humping. Dave was on the verge of becoming a complete ass-hat and calling his boyfriend to ask what was going on with him, but his pride (what little he was able to keep in his relationships) would not let his thumb hit "send"; he was _not_ going to be a groveling little bitch on his birthday.

At about the exact same time Dave shut off his BlackBerry to avoid any further temptation a cry of "Hallelujah!" filled the cabin of Rafe and Bryce's Lexus. It was from Kyle, of course, as they had just turned off of Baker and onto Fulton, _their_ street. Dave realized this and held off on cuffing his BFF right in the back of the head; they were home at last.

"Oh _God_, I have missed my bed," Kyle moaned, pressing herself against the rear passenger window like a five-year-old, as if she could somehow _will_ herself to the door.

"Preach it, Sister," Dave said.

"Kyle, get your face and hands off the glass," Bryce said. "I just made Rafe wash them."

Kyle snorted and Dave saw her eyes roll despite the steam on the window. "So? Make him clean 'em again. I don't think he's quite worked off that second honeymoon mishap, yet."

"Bitch, I _will_ kill you," Rafe growled giving Kyle a death glare through the rearview. Kyle only winked at him; Rafe, like Dave and like _all _of their manly ilk, was all talk and no show ninety-nine percent of the time. And since that other one percent was reserved for life or death situations she was safe.

Before they'd even pulled into the driveway Dave was already breathing in the familiar scents of home. Rosemary, ginger, and a thousand other spices in the kitchen from the herb garden grown at the big window. Oranges and Fabreeze in the living room. The weird, almost chlorinated scent of the downstairs basement, courtesy the air purifier and mold sprays that they always took care to wipe the baseboards with down there. And that strange musk that permeated everything and made it so wonderful in the first place, something that was just _home_.

Rafe went up the drive extra slow, doubtlessly to torment Kyle who could only whine against the power of childproof locks. The car had stopped just short of the garage before Rafe finally relented and cut the engine, popping the child locks. This caused Kyle, whose hand had been hovering on the handle, to jerk and push at the _worst_ time and tumble right out of the door. Dave knew she was alright when she started to swear profusely, so he allowed himself to enjoy and laughed heartily at his best friend's expense.

"You dumb cunt!" he all but howled, shaking his head. "You dumb, dumb, _dumb_ cunt!"

"_Cock-suck_! _Fuck nuggets_! _Bitch_!" Kyle's Tourette-esque explosion only further confirmed she was just fine. She struggled to her feet, jeans covered in gravel and her wavy hair falling out of its pigtails. "I'm good! I'm good!" And she held up both arms like a gymnast who'd stuck an awesome dismount.

"Good, yeah, _that's_ the word for that, alright," Dave teased as he unbuckled his seatbelt and slid out of the car maintaining _far_ more grace than his partner.

Bryce, who along with Rafe, was nearly crying from laughing so hard, managed to quip, "Do it again! I've got my phone this time; we'll get _so_ many hits on YouTube!"

"Shut up and pop the trunk, asshole." There was no real malice in Kyle's words as she dusted off her jeans and adjusted her jacket; she too was giggling at her idiocy. It was probably for that reason Rafe didn't continue to goad her for giving his husband more punishment ideas and did as she asked. Dave, having _not_ fallen on his stupid face upon exiting the car, was already waiting for the "pop" and pulled both his and his partner's luggage from the confines of the trunk.

A playful gleam lit Kyle's eye as she nudged his shoulder with her own. "Aw, look at _you_, being all gallant and shit. I think I might have to make it up to you." She grabbed the handle of his suitcase as well as her own (they were the rolling kind) and her carry on.

"How hard d'you hit your head?" he teased, nudging her back after closing the trunk and slinging his bag over his shoulders.

Kyle only stuck out her tongue in response, prompting Dave to gnash his teeth as if trying to bite it. The customary bawdy commentary that always followed such an exchange was, however, interrupted by Bryce's whine.

"Okay, I _need_ to take a piss like five minutes ago. One of you assholes let me into your house right goddamn _now_." By the way he was bouncing on the balls of his feet and that dangerous flash had returned to his big brown eyes, it was obvious now wasn't the time to fuck with Bryce by pointing out he was a guy and could piss in their shrubs. Kyle still _did_ that, because that's just the little ball of sunshine she was, but Dave spared himself the tirade on how Bryce wasn't "a fucking savage" who did his business out in the open where anyone could see or wild raccoons might come along, and went to unlock the door. Bryce was yelling the best part at Kyle, where he claimed raccoons and their grubby-little people paws could tear a dick off with almost no effort, when Dave finally got the security code punched in to the alarm pad and unlocked the door.

Debating on whether or not he should actually _tell_ Bryce that the door was open or if he should just let the other man piss himself while he preached raccoon phobia (in a voice that became successively higher the more terrified he became), Dave slid his arm up the wall to flick the lights on in the main foyer. The wall sconces came up, throwing their soft, welcoming amber light over the room where half a dozen people stood expectantly. Dave's brain hadn't even registered what the fuck was going on before the scream of "SURPRISE!" hit him along with a few face-fulls of silly string. He caught up pretty quick after that.

"Oh, my _fucking_ God!" he laughed, wiping away the few errant ropes that had hit his cheek and neck. "I—shit!"

"Jesus, I hope not," a thin, tattooed man with dark, untidy hair said as he moved toward Dave. "You're not even drunk yet, Davey, you _can't_ crap yourself until after at least half the bottle of Jack is in you!"

Dave snorted as they hugged. "Jack Daniels? Jude, you dick! If you're gonna get me wasted you should have got the Kraken!"

"Ugh you have no taste." He kissed Dave's cheek. "Which was why I _did_ get that nasty swill. Happy birthday, Athos."

"You're a good man, Aramis," Kyle answered, again reading Dave's mind, as she wrapped her arms around him from the back, winding over top of Jude's thin limbs for a threesome hug. Cherry chapstick lips smacked against the scruff of Dave's jaw then the corner of Jude's mouth, the slighter man pressing super close and leaning over Dave's shoulder to give Kyle access.

"Thanks, Porthos."

"You _knew_?" Dave asked Kyle, left eyebrow flagged high. Usually, Kyle (and Jude too, for that matter) couldn't keep secrets from him to save their lives; part of the package when you're so close that you almost had telepathy. "How long?"

The answer came by Bryce, interrupting again, as he shoved the three of them out of his way to charge into the house. "A month. Now fucking _move,_ my emergency was _not _part of the act!" And he barreled down the hall to the half-bath, nearly knocking Maggie and Claire over in the process. Laughing, Dave's two best friends released him so that the rest of his local nearest and dearest could get a turn.

Since all of his friends were as busy as he and Kyle were with work, Dave was truly touched by the effort put into their little surprise. Green and blue party decorations are spread out all over the first floor of the house. In the kitchen the big island counter was transformed into a little buffet that included some of his favorite foods including mini quesadillas and hot wings with soda, whisky, wine and Dave's beloved black rum set out on the smaller one. The cake was a Chocolate Chipper from Cold Stone Creamery adorned with twenty-seven little candles that Maggie and Claire carefully lit before they, Kyle, Jude, Vince, Rafe, Bryce, Darren and Neil serenaded him with a wonderfully out of tune version of "Happy Birthday". He had the most perfect birthday in creation amazing cake, great food, possibly the most wonderful people on the planet surrounding him, _Kraken_, there was only one thing missing and Dave felt ashamed for not noticing until he'd eaten his slice of cake. His boyfriend was missing.

Nathan wasn't all that fond of Dave's friends and the feeling was mutual, but he figured that they could have at least tried for this. Or, specifically, Nathan could have been less of a bitch and taken the invite because he _knew_ that one would have been extended. His friends were a lot of things, but they were _not_ petty or meddling. Even Kyle, who was a breath away from sticking Nathan's picture on the dartboard in the rec room, would have made damn sure that Nathan knew what was going on that night. And since it had been Maggie—sweet, caring, attentive-to-everyone's-needs-over-her-own Maggie—he'd discovered to have taken charge of the planner, there was not a single doubt in Dave's mind that Nathan had gotten an invite. Probably in a scented, popup card hand delivered by the little redhead.

Dave did his best not to think about it, telling himself that Nathan did not deserve even his thoughts. It was _his_ birthday so he should be enjoying it, not wasting his time on shitty boyfriend drama. So Dave did his best not to. He danced with his friends, ran from Kyle when she discovered is "artwork", ate good food, and did his best to utterly annihilate on the newest version of Mario Kart. He also started slamming back Kraken at a pace that he knew was probably unwise. It was hard to care though, once the warmth of the buzz had settled around him, making Dave impervious to all negative things.

Had he not noticed the vibrations of his phone, for at least another hour or so, birthday twenty-seven would have technically been pretty good. As Dave reached into his pocket though, it was destroyed.

It was from Nathan, a text message, and just reading that part bolstered his spirits to the height he had been pretending most of the night. It gave him the hope that maybe, as fucked up as it seemed to be, the year he'd spent with Nathan had not just been a waste of time. That maybe, just maybe, something could be learned here. His boyfriend could apologize, he could forgive, and by some magical means Nathan would get his irritating shit together so they could be more of a couple than just exclusive fuckbuddies who attempted to do things together without a fight and obligatory make-up sex after each date.

Then Realism punched Dave right in the balls as he read that message.

**i hope ur birthday was good u deserve 1. wish i culd hve ben their. n Athens w/ mom. btw maybe not teh best time b i want 2 c oher peeple. no hard feelings.**

**3 Nathan**

Realism went back for seconds and Dave found himself vomiting on poor Claire's shoes after he'd thrown his BlackBerry at the potted plant.


	2. Green Eyed Monsters

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

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**September 16, 2020 AKA 'bout a year before the previous chapter's events (glad we cleared that up)**

Clubs were never really Dave's thing, at least not the kind where you couldn't have a decent conversation over the thumping of the bass. He liked his hangouts to have good drinks, good music that didn't bust the eardrums and a few cute guys should he feel like punishing himself that night. Saguaro in New Haven had _all_ of that plus a few heterosexual tidbits for Kyle, Maggie, and Neil, which was why it was _their _spot. Their troupe _always_ went there, even if they were meeting for dinner at Friday's they meandered the two blocks or so to drink at Saguaro afterward. However, the basement at "their place" had flooded and Saguaro's doors were closed for a week. Which was how Dave ended up sitting in a booth at F.R.E.S.H., bass thumping inside his damn head so that he couldn't even enjoy his Kraken 'n' Kola while the others (just Kyle, Neil, Jude, and Darren that particular night) enjoyed the dance floor.

He spied Kyle enjoying herself between two rather handsy guys beneath the strobe and smirked to himself, remembering her earlier warning that he would be taking the cab home alone that night. When it came to sex his curvy BFF always made good on her word and he admired the lack of inhibition she had most of the time. Other times, like when he was out of his element and a little hard up, (like, for instance, _that exact moment_) it was hard not to loathe her spectacularly slutty ways.

It wasn't that Dave couldn't pick up a guy, he could because A) he was _not_ a scared little Lima Loser anymore and B) he looked _damn_ good and he knew it. The thriving LBGT community at Ithaca had groomed him well—_very well_—for all the homoerotic action that he'd been too scared to get throughout high school. It had also helped him to shape-up, figuratively _and_ literally. He was never going to have chiseled abs but the baby fat had melted away by sophomore year—bless twenty-four-hour student gyms—to reveal the sturdy muscle beneath. There was still a full head of hair on him too, even thicker in fact, as he was lazy with cutting most of the time.

No, Dave could take just about _any_ guy home, but he wasn't really looking for notches in his bedpost, that was more Kyle's style. Not to say that he hadn't had his slutty days because he most certainly had; Jude and Kyle had the pictures to prove it. He didn't regret any of them, either, the orgy where he'd dropped acid and woken up with nipple piercings and a limp being the exception. Dave had simply cleared the nymphomaniac era of his life and was looking for an actual relationship. Something that was a little bit difficult when you divided up so much of your time locked in a room brainstorming, tied to a computer in a writing frenzy, and jumping all over to attend conventions, meetings, or signings. And somehow, even though he was living in fucking Connecticut, which, really, should have been called "The Rainbow State" ("The Nutmeg State"? _Really_?), it was somehow all that much harder to accomplish if you were gay.

As he slid out of the booth and wandered back to the bar Dave contemplated just going home. Neil and Darren had disappeared at the night's beginning two hours ago, so he wasn't counting on seeing them any time soon. Kyle was, of course, going to head out with her flavors of the evening shortly. And Jude had texted him not five minutes beforehand to say that he'd grabbed a hottie in the bathroom.

He downed the contents of his glass and sighed; it was definitely time to call it quits, retreat to his office and start drafting the next story arc for the Dead Gods Saga. Maybe he would tweak the plot and kill the protagonist's love interest; there could never be enough realism in comic land, after all. Right after he got a second drink to make pretending that Jude's text didn't sting that much easier.

Dave grabbed his jacket, slid out of the booth and over to the bar, ordering with some effort over the goddamned bass. While the bartender filled his order Dave pulled out his phone, intending to tell Kyle that he'd see her at home the next day and hoped her threesome was good enough to warrant a funny walk. Half of the plan worked out, he got the message typed out and was about to hit send then turn off his phone (a TMI from his BFF would _not_ improve anything) when a little scene at the end of the bar caught his eye.

Two guys, one slight, pale and dark of hair with an appletini (which Dave had to admit was too gay for just about any cock-loving man he knew) held in one hand and the other best be described as a Jersey Shore throwback complete with a stupid tan and horrible gelled hair, were having a bit of a moment. Or rather Jersey was _hoping_ for a moment, flexing and posing in such a way that he _couldn't_ avoid pushing into Appletini's personal space which the smaller guy didn't seem to care for. At least if the eye rolling and turning his back on Jersey were anything to go by, and while Dave admitted he occasionally got lost in social situations, as all true geeks and freaks did, he was _pretty _sure those things weren't a "go for it". Jersey, however, did not seem to subscribe to the same book of social norms that normal people did though, as he forcibly spun Appletini's barstool back around.

Now, as far as Dave was concerned, he had never, _ever_, been much of a boy scout. He was your stereotypical burly guy whose insides were made of marshmallow (_and_ rainbows, if a drunken Bryce's two cents were put in), true enough, but that wasn't something special. Noble, gallant, magnetic, weren't words Dave associated with himself and, while he _wished_ it could be true, he also never expected to be any guy's Prince Charming. None of those facts—in _his_ head—mattered when he saw the brief panic on Appletini's face as Jersey went back to getting too close. Perhaps it was guilt from having far too much in common with the tanned idiot a long, long time ago or maybe it was that all those things, noble, gallant etcetera, _did_ actually describe the man he was now. It could (most definitely) have been all of that. Either way Dave's feet had started to move without any conscious input from his central nervous system.

In one smooth motion Dave slid all brawny six-feet-two inches of himself between Jersey and Appletini. He didn't say anything to the handsy offender; he didn't even acknowledge his existence, giving the guy nothing but his broad back. Appletini, who Dave now saw was green-eyed, got his best smile and the offer of his right arm.

"Hey," he said, hoping—his brain had finally caught up with just what the fuck he was doing—that he did not come off as an even bigger jackass than the jerk behind him had. "Sorry I kept you waiting. Ready to go?"

Appletini, now to be dubbed Green Eyes in honor of those fantastic peepers, only looked at him for a second or so before a thin arm covered in soft, teal fabric wound through his.

"Of course." He said it in a smoky sort of voice with a slow curl of his plump pink lips. Slipping off the barstool, Green Eyes pressed himself close to Dave's side and allowed him to lead the way out. Dave didn't look back but he could _feel_ Jersey glaring at them until they'd disappeared beyond the exit.

Green Eyes kept his hold on Dave's arm until they were well beyond F.R.E.S.H.'s doors, about fifteen feet or so, but once they were out of their radius he pulled back like Dave was on fire.

"So I suppose you're assuming you've got dibs on me for the white knighting, huh?" Green Eyes' eponymous features were hard and sharp, like emeralds as they bored into Dave's. He crossed his arms over his chest, hips jutted to the right. Dave, amidst the utter confusion of just _how in the hell he was getting glared at now_, was turned on almost at once.

"I—Um—_What_?" Dave was impressed that he managed to sputter even that.

Green Eyes continued on as if he hadn't even heard Dave speak. Not that Dave was going to blame him, his one full word had hardly been eloquent; hard proof that writers were _hardly_ orators at heart.

"I'm not a woman you know, I could have handled that." He flipped his bangs back from his eyes rather needlessly.

"I'm…sure you…_could have_…?" Again Dave was just sort of amazed his tongue was working.

"Damn straight I could," Green Eyes said. "Effeminate does _not_ mean I can't crush some balls." The way he said balls made Dave think that it might be a warning for him.

"That's…good…"

The smaller male gave a sharp nod. "Right. Glad we're clear on that. 'Cause, quite frankly, if you want some of this," he gestured to himself, "it takes wining and dining to get to sixty-nine-ing, handsome. You're not getting a thank-you-fellatio just for scaring a creeper off. Takes a couple of those to earn that. And_ certainly _not on the first date."

The connection between Dave's mouth and brain finally short-circuited. Green Eyes didn't seem to notice his silence, though, and he resumed his earlier position, hanging onto Dave's arm. With both arms this time and his head resting against his shoulder.

"So is your car nearby?" Green Eyes asked as they resumed walking at his prompt. "I _really_ don't want to waste my time on a loser who doesn't own some sort of transportation, no matter how cute or nice they may be." He smirked and batted his ungodly long eyelashes at Dave as he said the last part.

The short circuit somehow repaired itself. "I um…I have a car but I came in a cab tonight with friends. I live in—Okay, hold on." Dave forced his feet to stop going along with Green Eyes' steps as he looked down with unveiled incredulity at his companion. "What the _hell_ is going on here…?"

Green Eyes made a face, as if Dave had just asked what color the sky was. "Wow, you lose suaveness as the night drags on. Not winning you any points, honey." He tugged at Dave's arm again and for whatever reason (it was in his pants, oh most definitely in his pants) Dave was going along. "And you're taking me to Martinique's grill because they're open late _and_ within walking distance. Plus their tilapia is to die for."

Dave's irritation, well, most of it, anyway, melted as a strange lightness began to flicker in his chest. He laughed, not caring how utterly insane this situation was anymore, or that he was grinning like an idiot.

"You're assuming that I'm single, you know," he said to Green Eyes. "Never just occurred to you that maybe I'm just a Good Samaritan?"

Green Eyes snorted. "_Please_. You are single." The way he looked at Dave and his tone were saturated with condescension. Irritation resurfaced, prickling in Dave's throat and causing his cock to twitch just a little. "What's your name?"

"Dave. Dave Karofsky. And you are…?"

"Nathan Channing."

OoOo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo O

They could not have been more ill matched. Nathan thought that comics were for kids and Dave thought the same of cocktails. Dave liked quiet nights in and Nathan wanted the world to see him at every opportunity. Needless to say, they fought right from the start, beginning with the appetizer on the first date and carrying on to a thousand other things nearly every moment they were together after.

Their tiffs weren't anything particularly brutal, they didn't hit one another (outside of the kinky way, at least) or anything of that sort but they were certainly at odds more often than not. So, of course, since they spent half their time fighting the other half was spent make-up fucking. Twisted, Dave knew it and the logical part of his brain told him that when things ended (which they _so_ would) it was going to be a mess. They had nothing in common, all the people Dave held closest to his heart didn't care for Nathan in the slightest so he_ knew_ they couldn't last. But all of that rationality just seemed to get so fucked up whenever Nathan got; backhanded compliments and nitpicking set him off like a Roman Candle, it just took Dave a while to notice the ashes.

The day that Dave dragged Nathan out to purchase Kyle a birthday gift was no exception to this standard. _At all. _One minute he was explaining (_yelling_) to his boyfriend just _why_ the little cunt needed to put some effort into his present after the horrendous first impression he'd made and the next Nathan was riding him like a jockey at the Kentucky Derby.

From an outside perspective Dave was pretty sure that the two of them looked like animals or at least mentally handicapped. Nathan's button down sweater was half on, his undershirt shoved up to reveal his very abused nipples (the smaller man enjoyed some teeth) and his jeans were still clinging to his left leg as he straddled Dave. Dave's pants remained over his ass; they'd just been hastily unzipped to let out the monster normally caged beneath the khaki material. His shirt was somewhere on the floor, though, along with his left shoe and both socks. Why and how the right was still on was anyone's guess and quite frankly Dave couldn't care less; fucking was the only important thing at that moment.

"_Jesuschristdon'tfuckinstop!"_

During the act Dave was pretty quiet aside from the occasional grunt or curse word; actions spoke louder than words _especially _when the mouthpiece was Dave's cock. Nathan, though, had a very foul mouth while being plowed and, quite frankly Dave rather enjoyed it. How could he not, really? However, he might have enjoyed it more had the other man's voice not risen to such shrill heights the closer he came to climax. It was a flaw that Dave willingly overlooked. At least when his cock was buried in the nice, tight heat of that very fine ass.

Still, for the sake of his ears, Dave hoped to curb that little habit. He dug his thick fingers into Nathan's hips as he took hold of them, blunt nails sure to mark the pale skin. Nathan let out the beginnings of an indignant squawk which was choked off into something even less intelligible as Dave slammed him down while thrusting himself up. The angle was perfect; as Dave knew it would be (there was _nothing_ narcissistic about knowing how good you were at sex, _especially_ if it was legit and you'd worked at it). Over the hard slap of ass against thighs, Nathan's piercing expletives could just barely be heard turning into a much more pleasing string of gibberish while those emerald eyes rolled back in his head.

A familiar heat started to run laps between Dave's balls, lower belly and thighs, warning him that his time was almost up. And since Dave, with his silly pride and all, was not about to come first, he needed Nathan over the finish line ASAP. A slight challenge but only slight (again, when you'd put in the practice at it, there was no shame in recognizing your own Sex Godliness).

Nonsense words and breathy moans continued to pour past Nathan's lips as Dave repeated the assault on his boyfriend's prostate. He looked perfect with his head thrown back, hard cock jutting straight up with pre-cum glistening at its tip, his back arched as he grasped weakly behind him at Dave's thighs for some sort of anchor. The poet in Dave wanted that view to last forever; he could write sonnets Nathan's creamy skin and coltish limbs. The realist in Dave wrapped a hand around that needy prick and started jerking Nathan off before they both lost their damn minds.

Nathan came hard, voicing his climax as a breathy squeak while his semen spattered across Dave's abdomen. Dave growled his own release, something along the lines of "Holy fuck, YES!" not long after as the clenching of Nathan's sphincter provided that last little push he couldn't hold out against. His vision went a little fuzzy for fuck-all-knows-how-long, and when Dave could remember his name again the two of them had collapsed into a sweaty, semi-dressed heap on Nathan's bed.

They fucked again in a dressing room at a shop later that day and Dave gave up on the gift idea, deciding that Nathan just shouldn't be around Kyle for a while. He had hoped it would be something he got around to fixing eventually, but that was the poet in Dave again. The realist always knew it wouldn't happen just like he knew they'd never be in love.

Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo O

Jude never said anything about any of Dave's relationships. Partially because he was really just that nice, laidback type of guy who always tried to be cool with everyone. Partially since, given the fact that he and Dave had dated their Freshman year (and Jude had been Dave's first), he didn't want to come across as jealous and make things weird between the two of them. But when there was something really bugging him, the guy would only hold it in so long and Dave could _always_ feel when one of Jude's moments were coming. It rolled off of the skinny computer analyst like waves of ozone and Dave caught the stench of it at Maggie's New Years Eve bash.

Nathan had backed out of going, opting instead to take a spa trip to Cabo with his mother for the holiday. The inconsiderate little shit let Dave know about three hours before the party which sent him into a mood that lasted through the night. He had spent most of the evening sulking off in a corner or on the terrace, trading angry texts with his ex (for the moment) boyfriend. All of his friends had left him alone, not wanting to, literally, prod the bear. Well, everyone aside from Kyle and Jude had that as their modus operandi, the other two Musketeers weren't afraid of bear prodding; _they_ were just tired of his rotten attitude and left him to his misery in retaliation. Kyle stuck with that plan, not even bothering to find him for the ball drop and First Kiss; they had a tradition, he, she and Jude, of shoving their faces together at the midnight stroke for a threesome-kiss and had been doing it since freshman year. Dave never quite forgave himself for letting Nathan ruin that, though he wouldn't notice until much later what he'd even missed.

He _felt_ Jude's anger before the sliding glass door opened and Jude was standing at his side. Dave didn't want to meet his best friend's gaze, knowing already that the bright baby blues weren't going to have anything good in them. There was no just ignoring him, though, Jude had the power to make Dave cry with a look if he deigned to try; he'd _never_ been able to resist the other man.

Correct as always, Dave shivered, the frost in Jude's glare _far_ more potent than the December air. For guy more than a hundred pounds under him, Dave couldn't be anything other than intimidated by that thin frame when Jude's arms were crossed like they were. Worst of all disappointment clouded the rage aimed at him and it made Dave's guts hurt. It was a feeling that intensified after Jude smashed their lips together in a brief but still rather wet kiss.

"I remember firsthand how retarded you get in a relationship, Athos, but this shit is ridiculous." And he turned on the heel of his chuck back into the warmth of Maggie's loft.

Words and emotions that Dave had bottled up for about seven years started to claw their way up his gullet as he watched Jude's retreating backside. It took all of his self-control to keep them off his tongue, from marching after the other man and ruining their friendship. He didn't though, just stood there and let Jude run away; the fucking coward. Who he really meant was a coward was up for debate.

Dave and Jude didn't speak for over a week and it took Kyle knocking their heads together to get there. Apologies were grudgingly made and they teamed up to lock Kyle in the laundry room for a few hours in reprisal for her "counseling". That same night Nathan showed up at the house in nothing but a trench coat, boots, and a new piercing. Dave took him back, tied him to the bed, and drilled a temporary limp into his little ass.

He would never, ever, admit he was thinking about New Years, Jude's hate-kiss, and the fact he and Nathan were destined for a hot mess the whole time.

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Nathan had never been given the definition of just what work was. At twenty-four and as a college graduate he still lived with his mother. His mother, Natalie, was a wealthy old broad (nine failed marriages to silly men who never heard the word "pre-nup" would do that), so living at home for him actually meant living in the three-bedroom guesthouse on her estate. On top of that Natalie was _also_ Nathan's boss, having handed him a career as a trend blogger for a chain of boutiques that she owned. It was a cushy gig to say the least; Nathan worked from bed most days and had rock solid job security from being mommy's one and only. So, of course, the indolent little bastard never understood why Dave wasn't available every second of the day.

True enough, as a writer Dave pretty much made his own hours, but hard as it could be for some (Nathan) to believe, that actually _did_ take a good deal of dedication. He'd disciplined himself to rise early and spend at least four hours writing, on the computer or in one of the ten thousand notebooks he had around at all times, per day nearly every day. Along with that he also needed to spend so much time with Kyle plotting out their work. On their royalty checks she may have been billed strictly as the "artist" but Kyle contributed to the story too, just as he had input into the panels and character designs. Occasionally, they went to comic conventions, signings, or did other press for the comics. When the comic business wasn't taking up his time, Dave had independent projects he took care of.

While he _loved_ his work, really he did, it was still how Dave sustained himself so he took it pretty seriously. When inspiration hit, it hit hard and Dave's whole being suddenly belonged solely to an idea in his head. He literally could do nothing other than push it out with a pen or keystrokes and the spoiled brat he was dating never seemed to understand that.

It was mid-spring and something in the air had captured Dave, pulling him out of bed in the wee hours of the morning and out of the tangle of Nathan's limbs. He'd been careful not to wake his lover, gingerly slipping from beneath the sheets and grabbing a notebook instead of firing up his laptop. Grabbing his noise-cancelling headphones he curled into the armchair by the eastern window, eager to watch the sun come up as he poured himself into the paper.

It was well past dawn when Nathan finally came to and Dave was _still_ owned by the muse. He was so engrossed in the scrawling of his hand across the paper that he didn't even notice right away. Nathan might have gone unnoticed completely if not for the extra loud growl he made.

There was a fleeting moment, before Dave actually turned his head in Nathan's direction, where a wonderful little fantasy played through his head. He imagined he would see Nathan staring at him with blurry bedroom eyes and a silly grin. His boyfriend would rise slowly, stretching before making his way across the room and pressing a sweet kiss to his lips. Something equally sentimental would be said, like, "That's my baby, always an artist" and he'd slink back to the bed, watching Dave work for a little while as he drifted back to sleep. Or maybe he'd go hunt up breakfast, forcing a coffee and bagel into Dave's hand before doing that. Eventually Dave's muse would turn him loose and he could wake Nathan up with sweet kisses or a blowjob.

That daydream evaporated pretty fucking quick, though, when Dave found that artfully sculpted face ruined by the grimace it had pasted on. Their eyes met for only a second or two before Dave jerked his head back down to the soft white pages resting on his lap. He wasn't going to fight, he refused; Nathan could throw his little tantrum but would have to do it without an audience. Dave got a surprise though.

"Don't even fucking know why I bother."

That was _all_ Nathan said before he pulled on his clothes and left. He didn't whine, he didn't plead, he didn't even try the cock tease approach. There was a second or two after his bedroom door had slammed where Dave had chewed his tongue and debated going after him but he decided against it. If he wasn't breaking his writing spell for food then he sure in the hell wasn't going to do it to mollycoddle Nathan's already irrational ass.

An hour or so later Kyle was knocking at his door. Or, for a minute she was knocking, but when Dave didn't respond she was jerking the notebook from his hand and tossing it onto his bed. There was a moment where he contemplated using his pen to shank her, but that faded when she pushed a mug of coffee into his empty hand. A plate laden with fresh fruit, a bagel, and what appeared to be a slice of frittata was settled carefully in his lap. He raised an eyebrow and she only smirked down at him.

"I get you've got 'the hold' on you, Athos, I really do," she tugged her paint splattered tee shirt, indicating she too had been hard at work that morning. "But the fires of creation need fuel. Eat up, slut-puppy." A soft kiss was laid on his forehead and her hand fondly ruffled his messy curls; he was _really_ in need of a haircut. "Oh, and when your hand's a withered claw get down to the studio, I have things to show you." Kyle winked and made her exit, the door closing softly behind her.

While Kyle's gesture really did touch him, it also left a little corner of his soul aching, too. He was never going to get something like that or his fantasy from Nathan, not ever. Nathan didn't get him and never would.

Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo O

The Québec Comics Convention was always really fun for Dave. It was three days of great beer, great food, generally really great people, and a chance for he and Kyle to practice their French. Kyle was fluent, Dave was passable, but then again _his_ mother had not been a polyglot with nine million languages in her head. Well, he supposed, with the way Kyle's mother insisted on him calling her "Mama", just like the rest of the Queen litter did, that he _sort_ of did.

Kyle out-Frenching him was, unfortunately, not Dave's biggest problem at that year's QCC, it was _Nathan_.

Looking back Dave could not really say what had caused him to even invite Nathan along. Well, scratch that, he _knew_ he just really hated himself for being such a bitch. He wanted to pretend that, underneath all of the hate-fucking and shouting matches that somewhere, deep down, there was a _real_ relationship. Kyle, sensing his desperation, had been unusually good and kept Annabeth in check for him most of the con. It was the only cooperation he seemed to get as Nathan made it plain just about every second that he was _not_ enjoying himself. The only time the jerk ever really even smiled during the trip was when he had gotten shitfaced during the closing party.

"Better watch your twink, Nancy," Annabeth slurred around midnight, pointing to where Nathan and a group of other guys were dancing.

Dave's jaw clenched at her tone. The woman was a goddamned amazing agent and he knew Kyle and he would be up Shit Creek without her from time to time but that _didn't_ make them friends. She was already about as frigid as they came and that melted into total cunt when enough alcohol was thawing her from the inside out.

It also _really_ didn't help that she was probably right; the way some other pretty, skinny boy was dancing against Nathan did _not_ sit well with him.

"Hey, Annabeth, you wanna shit that glass out?" Kyle came to his aid as always, gesturing to the other woman's vodka tonic. His BFF and her death glare were things that no sane person tangled with, even drunken cunts like Annabeth. Their agent's face went red but she said nothing, just made a face and walked off to join a group of _other_ snotty sharks in designer heels.

He attempted to thank Kyle for the assist but she waved him off, almost coldly and turned her attentions to the hot bartender. It hurt but he got why, probably because his partner knew him better than he did. She just didn't want Dave to keep fooling himself and couldn't lie with fake sympathy. He loved Kyle more than anything in the world in that moment, even if he had to push all of his awareness down and refuse to acknowledge her honesty.

Instead he stalked to the dance floor and grabbed his boyfriend, dragging him upstairs to fuck senseless in their room.

Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo Oo O

"Why don't you want to go?" Dave demanded, tired of Nathan's vague non-answers. Really he was tired of a lot of things to do with Nathan. He wanted—no, _needed _—a real boyfriend, one who was willing to make an effort for him like, say, going home with him for the holidays.

Across from him Nathan made a face as he sipped on his wheat-grass and some-other-homeopathic-bullshit-extract smoothie. "Excuse me, but _maybe_ I already made plans." His tone was snotty as always making it hard for Dave to concentrate on the argument.

"Like what?"

"What isn't the point, _David_, it's that you don't even see how it might be an inconvenience for me to go to Nevada."

"Don't fucking play that, _Nathan_, it's pathetic. You blog shit about women's clothes _from your bed_. You could do the same crap from the guest room at Mama and Papa's."

"Ugh, do you _listen_ to yourself? _Mama and Papa_. Jesus Christ, they aren't even _your_ family, why do I need to meet them?"

Irritation flared to true anger when Nathan said that. Kyle's parents had treated him like one of their own since the day they'd met him. Even more so after his parents had passed away sophomore year; they at least knew he was gay and accepted him. He'd always been too afraid to tell Paul and Michelle, to "ruin" their lives any further. He didn't belong to the Queen's biologically but in their home he never remembered it.

"Fuck you." It was all he could say before storming off to the bathroom. If he stayed he might have done something like hit Nathan right in his stupid, pretty face. He would _not_ do that, not after all the promises he'd made to himself after the mess that was McKinley, laying hands on someone, especially another gay man, who hadn't hit him first would break him.

He turned the tap on cold and splashed his face as he leaned exhaustedly against the sink. In the mirror his hazel eyes were greener than usual, more proof than his white knuckles that he was way too close to the edge. A long, shaky breath escaped Dave as he let his head fall.

He needed to go out there and break up with that asshole. Over a year together and the drama and the anger had not ceased. The sex was phenomenal but it wasn't worth this. Dave needed to dump Nathan before something in him broke that might not get fixed.

He was going to do that, he really was, but then the bathroom door creaked (he'd forgotten the lock) and Nathan was all over him.

They kissed as angrily as they had argued, all teeth and rough strokes of the tongue. Dave put all of the aggression he'd held back during their fight into his hips, smashing Nathan against the sink with every thrust and making him scream. His nails were claws, creating hateful furrows of red along every inch of pale skin he could get to and Nathan loved it. He felt more sick than euphoric when he emptied what had to be a bucket-load of jizz into the condom. Maybe because he looked into the mirror as he came, biting down hard against Nathan's shoulder, and saw that their eyes were about the same color.

There was a farce of a romantic kiss after they had cleaned up, Nathan even going the extra distance to kiss the lip he'd gnawed 'til it bled. "Have a happy birthday if I don't see you then, stud."

Dave could laugh hysterically much later when it finally hit him that that little tryst had been Nathan breaking up with _him_.


	3. Words To Live By

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Notes:** Hi, guys, um...I really only wanted do one thing with this little post, and that was to make a plea to anyone out there to avoid the "ship wars" as they're calling the little rivalries between the Klainers, the Kurtofskians, the Kummers, and the Kinners. It's not worth it guys, and it's especially not worth it to send angry letters to RIB and company telling them how dissatisfied you are with their decisions. It's childish, end of story, and I know that us Kurtofskians are better than that. So, no matter how upset you were with the Klaine developments of the last episode, don't let it get you down and most certainly don't let it pull you into any unnecessary drama. I know you're all too awesome for it. :)

* * *

Despite his writer's imaginative heart, Dave really was a rational human being who let his head take charge ninety-nine percent of the time. Even as a kid he had always put more stock in what he could see rather than what he felt; which, coincidently, was why neither Santa nor the Easter Bunny were mentioned in the Karofsky household long after Dave turned six or seven. Aside from his messy teenage years where logic was a foreign language (and, _really_, what kid between thirteen and nineteen had _ever_ possessed a clear head?) he usually made pretty good judgments. After all, he had to be doing something right to have a thriving career and a personal life that wasn't _always_ in shambles.

Or at least he thought that up until his twenty-seventh birthday came and Dave realized he'd wasted more than a year of his life on someone he kind of hated.

As the hangover set in and he made a little nest by his toilet during the wee hours of November 20th, it really struck Dave, like his cheek against the porcelain as he struggled to keep his vomit off the floor, how much of a cock Nathan really was. The bitch hadn't put an honest day's work into jack-shit his entire life. Every other word that came out of his mouth was some sort of asinine backhanded compliment which Nathan consciously flung; he wasn't just a spoiled socially retarded brat, he was a proud fucking cunt. Problem was Nathan had absolutely no right to be proud.

Dave had dated many a snotty shit but up until Nathan Channing each and every one of them had had something to be snotty _about_. Difficult majors, thriving careers, _actual fucking lives_. Nathan wasn't bad looking, decent in bed, had a job gift-wrapped from mommy that he didn't even care about and lived, more or less, at her feet. So, really, Nathan didn't have _anything_ going on that warranted so much as an eye roll from Dave.

And yet _Nathan_ was the one who had done the dumping. Which, of course, led Dave to the million-dollar question: what the fuck was wrong with _him_?

Since he and Kyle had gone on a work binge in late October/early November, they were finished the Dead Gods Saga. There was a miniscule amount tweaking to be done, but Dave still saw the fruit of his and Kyle's artistic frenzy as a more than adequate excuse to take a personal break. Or, more specifically, he saw it as the universe putting its stamp of approval on him holing up in his room to ride out his depression with pen, paper, and practically no outside contact.

The day after his birthday, when they'd found out what had happened, both his best friends had made it their duty to take care of utterly everything he needed. Jude stayed over the 20th and 21st, doing Dave's unpacking for him and making sure that Kyle didn't leave the house to commit homicide. Kyle, after she was talked out of bludgeoning Nathan to death with his own femur, started cooking, her second favorite way to work out aggression. The house smelled like pão de queijo, griots, riz djon-djon, champ, esfiha, kugel and pretty much every other dish she knew how to make for _days_ after she'd broken away from the stove.

Had he not been so intent on moping, Dave would have taken the time to appreciate Kyle's delicious gifts rather than simply stuffing his face and putting the tray in the hall before grabbing his pen again. Honestly, when his state of mind cleared up later on, he would have to give his BFF props for not tiring of his shit sooner than she did; Kyle, it seemed, was an even more patient woman than Dave had ever given her credit for. Jude too, for the little Dave spoke to him over those ten days, never once showed frustration with him. Yes, Kyle and Jude were more than supportive and loving…for the first week and a half. Around day eleven of Dave's I-hate-myself-and-shall-never-leave-this-room-or-maybe-even-shower-again pity party, though, the two of them began to run a little dry on the sympathy.

Still, they handled him gently, in the beginning, trying to coax him back out into the world with bribes. Little things like movies, video games, and books that Dave really liked, dangled before his door in exchange for going downstairs. Jude offered to be the DD on every bar crawl for a year while Kyle even promised that she would never complain about his incompetence when it came to laundry ever again. None of their well-meaning ploys got him to so much as raise his head, though, and in fact only encouraged Dave to fuck up his sleep schedule in brand new ways so that he wouldn't even be awake when Kyle was. That miniature war lasted about five days, so around December 4th Jude and Kyle were pretty much done "babying" him.

Dave was sitting on the floor by his bed, basically surrounded by a pile of notebooks that were filled with the ironic combination of the most stagnant and deep stuff he'd written in years, when the fateful bang to his door came. He couldn't see who it was, his door and Kyle's had glass panels in them so for perfect privacy they'd hung curtains over the frames to close whenever desired. At that time, of course, the curtains were very firmly yanked together and the door locked. He knew Kyle and Jude were standing out in the hall, though, even if he couldn't see their shoes or faces pressed to the glass trying to get a look at him.

"Go away," he ordered, without looking up. While Dave really did _hope_ that they would listen he also knew that it was a vain prayer to really expect that they would.

"Athos, come _on_," Kyle pleaded, voice muffled from the glass, wood, fabric and space between them. "You haven't been out in the light of day for like three weeks! It's fuckin' unhealthy."

"Fuck _off_, Kyle."

"Davey!" It was Jude's turn, of course. "Please open up. Maggie's here. She brought baked mac'n'cheese!"

"The kind with the crumblies on it!" a third voice, Maggie by the soft, delicate tone, interjected.

"Did you hear that? _Crumblies_! Why don't you come out and eat it with us?" Dave wasn't sure what irked him more, the fact that Jude and Kyle had resorted to using Maggie in their ploys, or the fact that they somehow thought that food would just lure him out of his hiding place. Like he was a goddamned animal, though, to be honest, Maggie's baked mac'n'cheese _was_ the shit…

"You know," he growled, still not putting down his pen (though the writing had, for the moment, stopped). "The term '_Bear_' in the gay community does _not_ mean a big burly somvabitch who'll follow the scent of a picnic basket up a tree."

"…If picnic basket is a new euphemism for ass, now, then _yes it does._"

"Oh, Jesus…"

"_Really_, Kyle? That was fucking _awful_."

"_Awfully awesome_, you mean."

"No."

"Not a bit."

There was a split second after that last sentence came out of Dave's mouth when he _knew_ what Kyle was going to retort, _knew_. Like she had telepathically linked with him and he heard it before the giggling even started, and yet he _still_, despite his best efforts, couldn't completely choke back his guffaw of laughter. It was the first time he'd laughed in _weeks_ and it felt wonderful. Nonetheless, he was in a pigheaded sort of rut and felt pretty obligated to resent his BFF cracking his angst shell on principle, so he resumed his scowling within a second. Unfortunately even Jude and Maggie's groans had not camouflaged his slip.

"I heard happy!" Kyle exclaimed in triumph. "You still have a soul! Now open the door!"

"Please?" Maggie threw _that_ in, always trying (futilely) to keep the peace.

"_No_!" he growled. "I am _fine_, God dammit! Can't a guy just get some alone time?"

"Dave—" Jude started what sounded like was going to be a longwinded, vaguely emotional speech but luckily for Dave's stomach, but _unluckily_ for Dave's nerves, Kyle aborted that.

"You know what, _fuck_ this, Aramis. I am _done _playing this game. We are going to Plan B. Move your ass."

"Kylie…" Maggie again, sounding very nervous. Dave only got a second to contemplate why Maggie might be nervous when there were series of sharp clicking noises along with the rattling of the door handles and shaking curtains, before the oak framed glass was thrown wide. Kyle, followed closely by Jude (Maggie, her gray-green eyes wide, was staying in the hall) strode into Dave's bedroom, pocketing the jackknife she'd used to pick his lock.

Dave bounced to his feet at once, indignant to the extreme over Kyle's invasion of his privacy. They had _rules_ about going into one another's spaces uninvited, rules that Kyle and he had put down when they were sharing a dorm room nine years beforehand. He was even angrier at Jude for _letting_ her do it since _that_ asshole was the self-proclaimed "mediator" of their little circle.

"_What the actual FUCK, you two!_" he all but roared.

"Davey, please," Jude said. He at least had the sense to look sorry, holding up his hands and keeping a safe distance. "Just—just hear us out, hon. Look, we know you're upset. You just ended a fourteen month relationship—"

"With a total fuckwit who _never_ deserved a second of your time." Unlike Jude _Kyle_ was not so good at common sense. At least when it came to handling emotional situations and particularly those she had strong opinions about. A little voice in the back of Dave's head reminded him that her in-your-face honesty was what he normally liked best about Kyle. Probably to keep him from cunt punching her so hard that her ovaries blew out her ass right at the moment.

"Kyle, I swear to God, I—"

"Oh, holy fuck!" It was, surprisingly, Jude who interrupted this time as he covered his mouth and nose with both hands.

"What?" he demanded.

"Dude, you reek," Kyle said pinching her nostrils shut. "When in the hell was your last shower?"

Dave knew, really, that despite their (_Kyle's_) rather dickish way of bringing it up, he probably was on the ripe side of fresh. Getting into a depressed, somewhat insomniac state where you hardly noticed how many days had passed could make a guy forget things like hygiene. Which, later on, given how serious he usually was about keeping things neat, would utterly _horrify_ Dave. For the time being, however, he was moody, hypersensitive and the _last_ person on Earth who gave a flying fuck about how he smelled. Not to mention it sort of, well, more like _really_, stung that the two people he loved most in the world and vice versa, picked on that like two seconds into seeing him face to face for the first time in days.

"_Out. Out! OUT!_" he shouted, not caring in the least how his behavior was making poor Maggie shrink against the wall, hands over her head. Later, Dave would feel absolutely terrible about that; long story short: Maggie had had an abusive boyfriend or two so as little as an angry voice could make the poor thing catatonic on a bad day.

Kyle and Jude, however, were not delicate things like Maggie, and even with Dave bellowing in their faces, they didn't so much as bat an eyelash. Well, they flinched when he got closer but even as angry as he was Dave knew that was an involuntary reaction to his body odor and that they weren't even slightly intimidated. That fact was further affirmed when, after he'd stopped yelling and was just standing there red-faced and gesturing wildly for them to go, they exchanged very bland looks.

"Legs or arms, Skinny?" Kyle asked Jude as she removed her heavy hoop earrings.

"Legs," Jude replied with a nod, shrugging off his jacket. "Kicking's never been his strong point."

"Goody."

The following half-hour to forty-five minutes right after was sort of a blur for Dave, and _not_ just because Kyle's running tackle had knocked something out of him; though, undoubtedly it was part. Kyle was five-eleven and about two-hundred-seventy-five pounds of pretty-but-grew-up-with-eight-fucking-brothers you just didn't underestimate and Jude, for his slender frame had the grip of a pit-bull in his fingers. So, when _she_ managed to wrangle Dave's arms behind his back and restrain them with his own shirt while Jude did more or less the same by twisting Dave's pants off, Dave (at least subconsciously) knew he'd lost. He still flailed and hollered and did his best to decimate the both of them, as any self-respecting man would while being forcibly hogtied.

Though, his _lack_ of self-respect was what had gotten him naked and throttled in the first place, so…

They dragged him, kicking and screaming, to his bathroom and dumped him in the shower before turning the cold water on full blast. While the icy torrent definitely helped to awaken Dave's common sense at the same time it had also did _not_ soothe his temper. About ten more minutes' worth of yelling, peppered with some shoving and _then_ he was crying like five-year-old while rocking on the shower floor over what an even bigger loser he was for dating one like Nathan.

Once the tears were out Dave was, predictably, much calmer, though, still _very _out of it thanks to the adrenaline rush and lack of sleep that had been dogging him the past few weeks. He remembered Jude and Kyle hugging him, telling him that they were there and _everything _would be okay and then he was reclining in a bubble bath while his friends sanitized his room. Maybe it was the fuck-ton of lavender-chamomile oil that Kyle had dumped into the bathwater but Dave was feeling much better (saner).

He wasn't sure how long he had been soaking before the sounds of shuffling booklets and Lysol went away, but it felt like a long time. By the time Kyle returned to check on him the water was lukewarm, though he didn't mind it.

"Hey." She leaned against the door after it had been closed behind her.

"Hey." His return was halfhearted out of shame. Not because he was sitting naked in the bathtub while something with a vagina was in the room, hardly. Kyle and he had seen each other in far worse states than naked and they'd been way too close for way too long for skin to bother either of them. Dave was mostly just feeling the weight of what an ass he'd been for over a fortnight.

"Want me to wash your hair?"

"You don't have to."

"Sure I do. Hag's gotta take care of her Fag. Sit your ass up, Athos, I'll grab a seat."

Dave didn't respond to that, he simply scooted farther up into the curve of the slipper tub, which, given his height, wasn't too much of a move. Kyle returned just as he'd leaned back again, his desk chair in tow. She parked that right behind him and plopped down, setting an unfamiliar plastic bottle on the floor beside her.

"Are you washing my hair with baby shampoo?" he asked, watching through half-open eyes as Kyle tipped the bottle to her palm and squirted a generous amount of viscous purple gel into it.

"Hey, the label says 'for all ages'," Kyle told him as aforementioned purple gel was slathered into his scalp by Kyle's very talented fingers. Not for the first time, Dave wondered if _all_ visual artists were as good with their hands as his BFF was. Kyle, he often speculated, could rub vegetarianism into a goddamn shark. "'Sides, it was either that or mine, and I'm not wasting the good shit on _you_."

Dave chuckled then remembered just _why_ she'd be washing his hair with something different; Nathan had picked out his old hair stuff. To be quite honest it had never been a big deal to him what he washed up with so long as it left things clean and didn't lead to dander. Nathan had cared, though, but then again Nathan cared a lot about things Dave dubbed ridiculous. _Since_ it was an item of inane bullshit, and inane bullshit wasn't worth ruining the hatefucking, Dave hadn't cared when all of his generic toiletries had been replaced by a line of Axe crap.

"Tomorrow we'll hit the store," Kyle said, her fingers continuing to work pure joy into his scalp. "We need to finish Christmas shopping anyway if we're going to Nevada on the 14th."

"_I_ don't need to go Christmas shopping," he said, pretending like he wasn't just trying to avoid leaving the house as he smirked at his best friend. "_I_ got my holiday shopping done in September."

"Well, then…_someone_ has to carry my bags," Kyle chuckled. "And that someone is _you_, bitch." After a moment she added, more seriously, "You can't let that asshat take anymore of your time, Athos. He's already had a year too much."

Dave winced; he had sincerely hoped that they wouldn't be having _this_ conversation. It was a stupid, stupid hope, a self-destructive hope, but he really seemed to be into those anymore. So, in an attempt to break the habit, Dave went ahead and gave voice to the question that had been constantly burning beneath his skin for going on three weeks.

"What the fuck is wrong with me, Kyle?" Dave hated himself _so much_ right then that it was near indescribable. How small and broken his voice sounded, how more tears were forming in the corners of his eyes, and especially, how fucking honest it all was. He felt like such a bitch.

Behind him, Dave heard Kyle sigh right before the warmth of her arms settled around his shoulders. Leaning forward in her chair she didn't seem to mind her tee getting a little wet as she hugged him as tightly as the angle and her body strength would permit. Dave's eyes stung even more and he surely didn't feel less like a big baby but somehow the will to give a shit about any of that was fading.

"Listen up, you big dumb fuck," Kyle said, her own voice just a little thick, "'Cause if I have to tell you twice, I'm going to knee you in the crotch so hard your dick'll become an oversized clit." Her cheek pressed against his as she spoke, the closeness almost making Dave feel like he was hearing the vibrations of her words come _through_ him rather than _to_ him. "There is _nothing_ wrong with you, okay? _Nothing_. You wanna be loved, Davey, that's just part of the fucking human condition. At least the _normal_ human condition."

He scoffed. "It _cannot_ be normal—or healthy—to stay with some douche-bag for over a year just because it's convenient."

"Whoever said normal _was _healthy?" Another sigh escaped, tickling his due-for-a-trim sideburns. "When's the human race ever been fucking healthy, man?"

"You and Jude don't exactly go out _looking_ for shitty relationships," he pointed out, almost petulantly.

Kyle growled and butted the side of his head with her own. It was playful, of course, but her lack of amusement got through nonetheless. "Davey, Jude and I are like the _last _people I would _ever _look to as role models. For starters we both know that Aramis is the king of fucked-up-but-oh-so-awesome-at-hiding-it. I've been waiting for him to climb a clock with a semiautomatic for _years_. And _me_?" She snorted. "Have you not seen me avoid intimacy like the plague? The idea of fucking a dude then talking to him like a person after makes me physically ill. And _no jokes_—" his best friend twisted awkwardly in her seat so that he couldn't avoid her glare, "—this is serious time, mister."

"So bringing up the time you vomited on Nick Kirby's co—" Kyle stopped his pithy retort by grabbing his nose (kind of hard) and dialing up her bitch-face.

"Shut it," she said. "Shut up right now or I'll drown you and there isn't a jury in the world that would convict me." Her fingers eased off his now sore nose and she resumed her former position, arms tighter than ever around his shoulders. "Point is, you're human ergo mistakes will be made. Just, you know, learn from this one; maybe don't try so hard to fall in love. S'called 'falling' for a reason, right? More importantly, the sun's going to keep rising no matter _what's_ going on with you, so rise and fucking shine."

"That may be the cheesiest—"

"_And most importantly—_" Kyle's voice rose a few decibels to drown him out. The light in her dark blue eyes suggested she was seriously considering shoving Dave's head beneath the bathwater if he kept giggling at her. For a moment, anyway, in the next few seconds she let out a sigh before dropping her head down rest in the hollow of his shoulder.

"And most importantly," she continued as if he'd kept the cheek to himself, "you are loved." There was a new glimmer in Kyle's gaze, one that made the space beneath Dave's ribs ache in a very good way. He squeezed her hand, hoping that his best friend felt even a fraction of all the warmth he felt in that small gesture, and she kissed his cheek. "By me, by Jude, by Maggie, Bryce, Rafe just…a fuckton of people, baby. I mean, shit, you're _my _parents' favorite kid." He had to laugh at that, it may not have been true but that combined with the fact that Ophélie and Herbert did seem to fuss over him the most, made him feel pretty damn good. Though, considering Kyle and all eight of her brothers were all on the loud, obnoxious and scrappy side, Dave didn't _really_ have much competition—especially since the Queens hadn't suffered through his teenage years. "So, even if Prince Charming doesn't come along, you're not going to die alone and unmourned. In fact, I bet before he climbs that clock tower Jude takes _us_ out first."

"So we all get to hell at the same time?" Dave asked, wondering just what Freud would have to say about how Kyle's macabre sentiment honestly offered him a good deal of comfort.

"More or less," she chuckled. "My bet would be that it's just going to be you or me who initiates the massacre with some shit-talk." A last, lingering peck was pressed to Dave's jaw before Kyle's arms pulled away and she sat back up. "Right then, pep talk's done, let's rinse then go downstairs. Maggie's macaroni is gonna pair up awesome with a ham'n'swiss and that peach vino we got in Montreal."

"Can we drink the wine in coffee mugs like classy people?" he asked, passing Kyle the hand sprayer and dutifully tilting his head back.

"_Mismatched_ coffee mugs, baby. We'll be _super-classy_."

"I love you, Kyle." And he really, _really_ did.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The pep talk along with a few smacks upside the head from both of his best friends had Dave feeling almost normal two days after. Well, not _really_ normal, more like…wiser, better, and _much_ more wary of just what in the hell he was doing. Dave promised himself that he was done being on constant watch for his soul mate; like Kyle had said you fell in love, you didn't try and jump it. His friends and family did a pretty good job of reminding him just how good things were for him too.

He didn't think of Nathan once over the holidays, even though he'd been _sure_ the little bastard would plague him given their last fight but Dave, however, was too busy enjoying the holidays for that. Kyle's parents were respectively, a Catholic and a Jew, (all of their nine kids, ironically, were Agnostic) so Christmas and Hanukkah were both celebrated at their home, which meant ten days of family time. Surprisingly, thanks to "family time" meaning that you did pretty much whatever as long as _some_ members of the family were with you, it was a pretty sweat deal.

Kyle's brothers, like her parents, had accepted Dave into the fold pretty much from day one. There had been a little friction between him, Ernesto and Edwin (affectionately called "Set One" in the Queens' house) but that faded once he realized they gave him crap because they liked him. He had a really strong rapport with all of the Queens, particularly the kids. Ernie, Eddie, Geoff, and Jimmy were all in the parent club and their children, were goddamn adorable little hell raisers who worshipped he and Kyle. Most of the trip for Dave was playing games, building forts, and helping to bake cookies for Santa, all of which he adored.

Two days after Christmas Dave and Kyle flew back into New Haven to attend Maggie's New Year's party. Again, Nathan was the furthest thing from his mind while he drank and danced with his friends. There was no bitchy-boyfriend drama to keep him sulking in a corner or to distract him from First Kiss, which, given his, Kyle's, and Jude's states of inebriation, was extra messy (he was pretty sure Kyle licked his eyeball at one point).

Everything seemed to be perfectly back on track. He and Kyle put the finishing touches on the Dead God's Saga and got to make Annabeth's life a little bit miserable during the editing process. She couldn't hold anything against them, though, not when there were Harvey, Inkpot and Eisner whispers along with one hell of a fan reception; according to a Saladin accountant that the final issue set a company record.

It was after the Inkpot consideration had been dropped at the Massachusetts Central Con that they decided to celebrate their success with a night out to Saguaro. Or really, their friends decided for them. Jude and Claire ambushed the two of them near the end of January, demanding they get dressed up for a night out, citing some bogus Vince issues for Claire, and found the whole group at Saguaro, Bryce and Maggie even waving signs that had "Congrats!" emblazoned on them in glittery paint. Thus began one of the greatest evenings of Dave's life.

"To my best friends, David and Kyle!" Jude, normally so quiet, roared above the crowd as their waitress/pretty-good acquaintance, Tiff, brought over the third round of shots he was buying. "May they remember us little people after they clean out Comic Con International a second time!"

Hell yeah's, here-here's and woo-hoo's exploded in the air around the booth as all ten people slammed down their Goldschläger. Claire, Darren, and Maggie only choked a little on this round, perhaps because they were getting, slowly, used to the "harder" stuff, or maybe because the cinnamon aftertaste didn't sting the way that the tequila or the bourbon had. Still, all three of them were pretty eager to get the other drinks Tiff carried.

"Ease up, bitches, you'll get yours," Tiff growled, slapping at Darren's hand as it went for her tray. She tossed her purple head and glared at all of them. "I swear if you people didn't tip so good I'd break your grabby little hands. Piña Colada?" Phrased as a question she still slid the drink to Bryce before he'd said anything.

"Merci," Bryce slid a ten back and caught Rafe's Hayride in return. He passed the drink along to his husband with a kiss that had he and Kyle exchanging gag looks. Ever since Rafe had managed to bribe someone or whatever it was that he did to get off the no-fly list and whisk Bryce to Australia for Christmas the pair had been _extra_ sickeningly sweet.

"PDA, motherfuckers." Darren tossed the cherry from his amaretto sour at them.

They broke apart at the lips but Bryce didn't move off of Rafe's lap and to further annoy Darren Rafe took the cherry and began dangling it provocatively in front of his husband.

"You two are awful," Claire said, though, by her giggling, it was easy to tell she didn't mean it.

"Agreed." Vince _did_ mean it. Vince was a permanent grouch—in an endearing way, though. Claire always said that he was a kitten in bed, despite the crotchety routine; the group, more or less unanimously agreed to take her word for it. Claire was the kinky type who _would_ film shit then send it out to everyone via email under an innocuous headline like "Birthday Party" or "Baby's First Steps". No one, not even Jude, bisexual slut-king that he was, ever wanted to see Vince's hairy, ginger ass getting pounded over the kitchen table by his seemingly delicate transvestite lover. _**Never again**_.

After Tiff was done passing out drinks and had sauntered off for the time being, the air at the table quieted just a bit, as everyone settled back to nurse their drinks and chitchat. Dave was gushing to Maggie on what an honor it was just to be mentioned by some of the people on panel for the awards this year, when Neil's drink interrupted everything. It was a neon shade of pink, practically giving off its own light, in a martini glass with a rim crusted in what could have been blue glitter, and a chunk of star fruit on the side as garnish. He caught Kyle's eye and saw practically every thought going through his own head in them.

"What the actual fuck is that?" Kyle voiced the question Dave was just barely keeping in.

"What?" Neil looked confusedly between the two of them.

"_That_." Dave leaned across the table to flick the base of Neil's glass.

Neil rolled his eyes. "It's a Cotton Candy Cosmo."

"It's the pinkest thing I've ever seen," Claire murmured. "And I've been in the drag circuit for seven years." She prodded the glass' rim with a delicate nail, chipping away some of the blue to taste. "Mmm…blueberry…"

"It's the _gayest_ thing _I've_ ever seen," Dave said. "Holy fucking—I have had cock in my mouth and somehow that is less gay than what you are holding in your hand, Neil."

"You are _so_ fuckin' immature."

"Dude, no, he's got you," Darren said. "Us fags would know, baby." He gestured between himself, Dave, Bryce, Claire, Vince, and Rafe. "You are drinking distilled homosexual."

Neil laughed. "Well, if it turns me, you'll be the first to know, sweet cheeks." He took a drink and shook his head at them. "I swear, this, _this conversation right here_, is why straight guys and gay guys can't normally be friends. Man can't have a drink 'round here without bein' judged."

"I thought it was the whole sizing-you-up-in-the-restroom thing?" Darren asked.

"That's _just_ you, Darren," Neil deadpanned.

"Ooh, fair enough…"

"On _that_ note…I wanna dance!" Kyle announced loudly. She downed what was left of her Guinness and nudged both Dave and Jude. "Both of you, c'mon! Entertain me."

"I don't think it's in the best friend contract that we have to dance at your beck and call, Porthos," Jude chuckled even as he ducked beneath the table and crawled out.

"Is too, Aramis," Kyle said. "15th amendment paragraph two, '_If your best friend wants a dance partner, you tots have to oblige, because she undoubtedly does shit for you that _she_ hates. Such as feeding your cat when you go to conferences even though she hates cats._'"

"Oh, yeah, it's right under the section about how you should _never, ever,_ hide your best friend's vibrator batteries." There was a touch of venom in Jude's tone as he narrowed his eyes on Kyle.

"That was hilarious, shut up."

"It was _not_. I had triplets in there to entertain. Two girls and one gorgeous fucking boy, that's a once in a lifetime opportunity. Cock-blocking is _never_ cool, Kyle Olivia Queen."

"Shut the fuck up, _both_ of you," Dave laughed, grabbing each of his best friends by the arm and pulling them out to the floor.

Dave never really thought of dancing as being one of those things he was particularly good at, and from an objective point he was no Fred Astaire. However, he wasn't horrible either, especially when he wasn't under any pressure. Moving to a rhythm he liked, in a familiar haven, with the two people he loved most _certainly _qualified as a comfort zone for Dave. One of his favorite songs (The Killers' "Spaceman") started up and he pretty much lost his inhibitions. Laughing as he spun Kyle and swayed with Jude was, perhaps, the best feeling in the world.

There was a moment, when he was sandwiched between Jude and Kyle as they all moved their hips to the beat, where he looked down at their hands. His was resting on Kyle's stomach, Jude's was over his and Kyle's splayed gently over them both. From the angle he could just barely see the tattoos on their inner wrists, the musketeer names, bright lotuses (Kyle), twining vines (him), and vivid curly-Q's (Jude) that marked the tender flesh over pulsing vein. Those hands had been part of his life for going on a decade and they were always there to pick him up or hold him. In that crystallized bubble of a moment, looking at their loosely joined hands, he knew that somehow, in some way, everything was going to be just fine. _He_ was going to be just fine, because he had Kyle and Jude with him.

Kyle was satisfied after about three songs before announcing she'd gotten her groove scratched. The three of them returned to the table where Bryce, Rafe, Vince, and Claire had disappeared from their seats. The couples were replaced, somewhat, by Tiff, who was once again taking drink orders and setting things down.

"Oh the universe loves me tonight," Dave said. "Hey, Tiff, can I get another—"

She turned and held out a Kraken'n'Kola toward him.

Surprised and just a little bit creeped out by the sudden and blatant display of magical powers that Tiff seemed to have developed, Dave took the glass from her. "I um…wow, I knew you were good, Tiff, but mind reading's a new one…"

Tiff snorted. "Believe me; while I am pretty BAMF, telepathy isn't on my skill set just yet, big guy." She smirked jerking her head towards the bar. "You've got an admirer, last seat on the right L." Dave followed her gaze but couldn't really get a good look, Saguaro was unusually full that evening. Looking back at Tiff he found that her smirk had intensified to a very dirty grin. "He's got beautiful eyes and the ass of a fourteen-year-old virgin, so I'll go out on a limb and say he may be your type. What do you want me to tell him?"

"I um—I—" Dave honestly did not know what to say. It wasn't like it'd be his first time getting picked up at a bar, not by a long shot. Truth be told, though, he hadn't even been doing things solo, let alone contemplated hooking up with another person, since the end of his last ill-fated relationship. He wasn't sure that he was ready to be so vulnerable with another person just yet. Dave was just about to hand the drink back to Tiff and ask her to give the guy his polite regrets when, once again, Kyle and Jude came to assist.

"Don't tell him _anything_, Tiff," Jude ordered, jumping between the waitress and Dave. "Dave'll do it himself."

"Hey!" Dave's kneejerk reaction to anyone speaking for him was, of course, incredulity and he glared at Jude.

Jude ignored him and so did Kyle.

"Yes and don't listen to _him_," Kyle added, nudging Dave's shoulder with her own. She put a twenty on Tiff's tray. "Now run, we've got to have an argument here. Give it about ten minutes then come back with another Guinness."

"And a Boilermaker," Jude tacked on with a smile.

"And a Boilermaker, please."

Tiff, used to this sort of behavior from the three of them by now, just nodded and went back to the bar, leaving Dave to glare at the two people he was now unsure just _why _he loved most in the world.

"Stop making that face," Kyle said, her hands automatically straightening the collar of his shirt and spot-checking.

"And _actually_ try to smile, baby." This advice came from Jude as he finger-combed Dave's somewhat sweaty hair back into place. "It's your best feature. At least while fully clothed." He winked and gave Dave a light slap on the ass.

"Ooh! That reminds me! Maggie, bag!" Maggie tossed Kyle her purse and, like Darren and Neil, pointedly avoided Dave's gaze. They _all_ knew better than to get in between the Musketeers during one of these little fights.

"You guys, stop it, I'm an adult!" Dave growled, swatting at Jude's hands as he licked his thumb and made to swipe Dave's eyebrows over. "I am fully capable of making decisions for myself, thanks."

"Yes, but when you're getting out of a funk they're usually pretty fucking awful," Jude said. Briefly he cupped Dave's chin inspecting his five o'clock shadow. "Hmm…yeah, you still rock pure sex with the stubble; he'll be all over that."

Dave teetered on a very, very fine edge. In one hand his libido was suddenly awake again and his dick was reminding him of all the neglect it had suffered as of late, thanks to his stupid heart. Also on that same side, rationality was pointing out that his friends, crass as they were, were only trying to push him to do what was best for him because they loved him; he was human like anyone else and required a good lay every now and then lest he lose what was left of his mind. On the _other_ hand Kyle and Jude were sort of treating him like a child who didn't know what was good for him. He was perilously close to losing his cool on the both of them when, somehow, Kyle and Jude pulled a Hail Mary (which they probably didn't even _mean_ to do) and reminded Dave just why they were his best friends.

Kyle's fingers curled around his right arm, the tips just faintly pressing against the pulse beneath the word "Athos". Jude followed her example and squeezed his shoulder. He was caught, like a deer in the headlights, between unnervingly serious azure and electric blue eyes.

"Davey, just go talk to the guy," Jude pleaded. "You don't have to go home with him. You don't have to kiss him. Hell, you don't even have to _like_ him, but Jeebus, don't just shut him down without so much as a 'Hi' because of Nathan."

Dave bit the inside of his cheek, hard, to keep back the words that so wanted to jump out. Again, though, Kyle found them just by the look on his face.

"Dave there is _nothing wrong with you_," she all but hissed. "You're the best man I know, even _if_ you're a hopeless fucking romantic." A hard, close-lipped kiss was pressed to his mouth, the force leaving a dull throb when Kyle pulled back. The kiss was followed up by a none-too-gentle punch in the arm. "Now go! You have to start fishing to get a catch!"

He, Jude, and the rest of the table groaned which only made Kyle's grin widen.

"God dammit, Kyle, you're an ass," Jude said slapping her shoulder before he too gave Dave a good-luck peck.

"Don't be hatin', baby."

Jude rolled his eyes then offered Dave a tentative smile. "She's right, you know. _Terrible as she is_. She's right."

Sighing, Dave nodded. He would figure out a way later to show his two besties just how much their tough-love approach was appreciated—even if he could never admit such a thing aloud. "Yeah, yeah, I got the message. Get back on the bike and ride—_no._" He slapped a hand over Kyle's mouth the moment that he said the last bit. "_No_ cheese. You keep it to yourself until I'm gone, Porthos."

There was a twinkle in her eyes that Dave was always wary of but he trusted her enough to remove his hand once she'd nodded. Kyle couldn't just leave the moment without _some_ awkwardness and without a word she was pulling items from her bag to slip into Dave's hand. Condoms and a travel-size bottle of lubricant.

"Why the hell are _you_ carrying lube?" Jude demanded. He swiped the little bottle to give it a closer look. "_Flavored_?"

"Um, why _wouldn't_ I be?" she countered. "Just because I may not be having dick shoved up my ass doesn't mean that I don't appreciate the extra tactile pleasure of a good lubricant. Besides, have you ever _tasted_ a condom by itself, you big slut? Latex does _not_ make my mouth water, thankyouverymuch."

"But vanilla condoms with sweet pomegranate slick do?"

"You stop judging me _right fucking now_, mister two-cocks-in-his-ass-with-one-clit-in-his-mouth."

"You know, actually, that sounds like a _really_ nummy combo! Have you ever tried the GC cinnamon vanilla lube with peach condoms? O-M-G, it tastes like my Nana's cobbler, I—"

Darren paused abruptly when he realized that all of his friends were _all_ staring at him openmouthed, a certain scarlet tinge rising up in his swarthy cheeks. He tried to hide behind his drink, pouting. "Well, it does…"

"Dude, I just…_Wow_…" Neil shook his head. "That explained like _all_ of the unhealthy things about you in less than two seconds."

"Well, good news, Kyle, any hopes of wood are dead for me tonight, so you can just keep your—uh—_kit_," Dave said, attempting to give the condoms back at her. She, however, jumped back and Jude snagged them only to slip both condoms and lube into Dave's back pocket.

"No, no, Kyle's right," Jude chuckled. "Better safe than sorry, Athos. Now get going!"

"Make us proud, baby," Kyle added, looping an arm about Jude's waist. "Bonus points if you come home walking funny."

Dave rolled his eyes and turned toward the bar, knowing that there was absolutely no way for him to get out of this. His friends, loving and helpful as they were, he would not put it past to forcibly _drag_ him over to drink guy. Perhaps tied up like a gift and with Jude showing off a chart on Dave's sexual prowess. Jude's commitment to being a good wingman was admirable, though mostly just creepy.

Taking the long way around the bar, Dave argued with himself every step of the way. Two primary sides, one he liked to called J&K Dos and the other was just Inner Dave. J&K Dos, of course, were telling him what his friends had; that he needed this, whatever it turned out to be, a booty call or what have you, just some goddamn human contact to prove that his heart was still beating. To prove that hey, shit happens, and he couldn't just let it keep him down. And, most importantly, to prove that not all men were like Nathan Twat-Face Channing. Expectedly, Inner Dave was telling him the exact opposite of _all_ that, pleading with him to bolt before he embarrassed himself. Inner Dave grew louder the closer he got to the bar and caught sight of the seat Tiff had pointed out.

The woman knew his type too well, all he could see was the back of him and Dave _knew_ his Achilles heel was going to be hit hard. Leggy and slim with a perfect, pert rump that was displayed perfectly by a pair of the tightest skinny jeans Dave had seen in a long time. What skin Dave could see, mostly neck and a touch of facial outline from the angle he sat at, from beneath the guy's tight tee and vest combo was that soft pink-white he'd decided to inanely call "alabaster" (_just in his head, no one else would __**ever**__hear that shit aloud_). He couldn't really make hair color because of the black fedora on the other man's head but Dave was betting it was brown. _Fuck_. He was in trouble if it was. Brunettes _always_ got him.

Something, in all most likely cases his stupid, stupid, _stupid_ cock, had him lightly tapping Fedora's shoulder, before he could really even process just what game plan he wanted to take here. Even worse, he was speaking too. "Um…hey, Tiff said this was compliments of you?" He lightly shook his Kraken'n'Kola, feeling like the world's biggest idiot.

When, Fedora turned around, though, Dave didn't feel so awkward, though. There weren't really words to describe the way his stomach seemed to utterly bottom out and his heart stopped working.

Green-blue eyes settled on him, a smile lighting that whole face up like Christmas tree, but especially the eyes; in ten years that smile and those eyes had not changed. The face was still perfect in its gentle curves, though a bit leaner so the cheeks weren't as full as Dave remembered. That nose, though, that perfect upturned button was _exactly_ the same, right down to the nearly invisible freckles dusting it. Going on ten years since he had last seen him and yet Dave _still_ had the lines of Kurt Hummel's face seared perfectly into his brain.

The same could not be said for he to Kurt Hummel, though, because he wasn't jumping back in fear and revulsion like the last time that they had been so close.

"Hey." His voice was just like Dave remembered too, low, soft, feminine but at the same time not, it had only changed in the fact that there was something sultry coloring it right then. It was a spice that Dave had _never_ expected to be shown to him, not in a million years. "You…ugh…you looked like you were working up quite a sweat out there with your…_friends_?"

If Dave had not quite believed that Kurt Hummel was actually flirting with him _before_, the way he lowered his eyes to peer at Dave from beneath the lashes and the unmistakable twinge of hope in that single word, "friends", surely did. Kurt Hummel had been checking him out on the dance floor. Kurt Hummel wanted him to be single. _Kurt Hummel wanted to fuck him_.

Kurt Hummel had no goddamned idea that he was talking to Dave Karofsky.

The instinct to run had _never_ been greater in Dave's entire life. It was as if his heart might explode if he dared to take another breath. Ten years of healing and growing and suddenly he was right back at McKinley, right back to being that same terrified kid who wanted to dissolve right into the ground. He cursed his friends for bringing him out that night, cursed Kyle and Jude especially for making him do this, and most of all he cursed himself. For being such a fucking wreck and for the words that next left his mouth.

"You don't remember me, do you?" His voice box was working of its own accord, refusing to take orders from his screaming brain just like his legs. He didn't _want_ Kurt to remember him and he didn't want to remember Kurt, at least not consciously.

Kurt quirked an eyebrow, chuckling lightly. "Um…no, should I…" His last world trailed off because as he tilted his head, trying to take new angles of Dave's face, something clicked. Right as he looked into Dave's russet flecked olivine eyes, it hit him, just who he was talking to.

Any horror or disgust that Kurt may have felt upon discovering whom he'd been trying to seduce was to remain, at least for the time being, unknown. Realization had just down when _another_ familiar face decided to make things even more hellish than before.

"Dude, Kurt, you're drowning, I got ya," the newcomer says with such smarm that Dave would have recognized his voice easier than Kurt's. Noah Puckerman, slinging an arm around Kurt's shoulders in a brotherly way, had not aged a day, though his Mohawk was AWOL.

"Um, Noah…" Kurt tried, very softly, at first to cut his friend off.

Puckerman waved Kurt off with a tipsy grin. "Shh, Bright-Eyes, Imma help you get some!" His hazel eyes cut to Dave (whose body was still frozen in place with God only knew what kind of retarded look on his face) and he put on his most charming smile. "Listen, dude, I'm not gay but even _I_ know prime twink real estate when I see it. Hell, if we weren't such good friends, and I was drunk enough, _and_ he wore a dress with some falsies, I _might_ try hittin' it."

"_Noah_!" Kurt's voice became a very high squeak, utter mortification taking hold of his features. He elbowed the bigger man but Puckerman, thanks probably to the whiskey in his left hand, coincidently the same one thrown over Kurt's shoulders, he just wasn't taking the hint. In fact he pushed Kurt back before returning attention to Dave who was starting to believe that he was fucking paralyzed because his legs would _not_ take away from this train wreck no matter how hard he begged.

"Hush, you've been ogling him forever, I'm tryin' to help you, stupid," Puckerman snapped. "Now, here's why you should take my friend home. A, lookit this face!" He grabbed Kurt's chin with his free hand and shook, placing a smacking kiss on Kurt's temple. "How the fuck can you say _no_ to that? Really! It'd be a crime! B, two words here, buddy: _enjoys fisting_. There—"

"_Goddamn it, Noah, it's Dave Karofsky_!" Kurt all but shouted at his friend, cheeks so red that Dave would not have been at all surprised if his head exploded right then and there.

If Dave had not been rendered absolutely immobile by his subconscious the whole scene unfolding before him would have been fucking hilarious, chiefly Puckerman's bit in all of it. The guy's eyes widened as he looked at Kurt then at Dave then finally back to Kurt, jaw slack. Puckerman pulled his arm from around Kurt's shoulders and did a whole new set of double takes before staring at his whiskey.

"Karofsky," he murmured, like he was talking to his shot glass. "_Shit_, I am _drunk_."


	4. Left Field Doesn't Do It Justice

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** First and foremost I would like to thank _everyone_ for their review. I'm almost certain that I responded to every registered user that left one, but in case I didn't this is for you and for the unregistered ones. I would particularly like to thank Therese for her (I assume only because the name is traditionally feminine) input. I really did appreciate that you pointed out what you disliked; it forced me to think as I wrote this particular chapter. I would also like to thank Haleva3 for _their_ absolutely wonderful super-gushy review. Looking at it still makes me glow. You are wonderful. **_All_** of you are wonderful and I sincerely hope that you enjoy this chapter.

A super special thank you to my lovely beta, aureliamonte, for all of her hard work and patience with me. Everyone who reads this should _also _be thanking her, she was faster, kinder, and far more helpful than anything I deserved and the reason that this came along so quickly. So if you like this story and are happy to see it up in time for Glee's triumphant (hopefully) return then you are very much indebted to aureliamonte. You are a godsend, honey. :)

Also, another thanks to winterswallows for being a wonderful listener as I bitched to her about this _way_ too much. Winterswallows has written a story called "The Boy Who Lives on Heaven Hill" and if you have not read it yet you need to. For serious. It's a Dave/Jeremiah pairing, which I can totally get behind because, honestly? I'm shipping Kurtofsky _all _because of the Dave.

* * *

Kurt had not really wanted to go out that cold January night, not even a little bit. To begin with he was worn out from unpacking, which, despite two days of both his and Noah's most concentrated efforts, _still_ was not finished. He wanted to be mad at Padma, Jules, Santana and Finn; the jerks had _all_ taken their vacations the week Geffen had scheduled them to move into the two label-owned apartments. But Padma _did_ genuinely deserve some time off from being the _only_ sane band member and he couldn't deny her a Parisian getaway with her boyfriend. Bitch about it to himself and Noah, yes, but look into those big brown eyes and tell her no? Kurt didn't have it in him. In Jules and Santana's defense _they_ had put off having an actual honeymoon for nearly two years so that Dorothy North's art could come first. And Finn hadn't seen his wife in almost three months, which along with knowledge of Rachel's equally crazed schedule, was enough to convince _anyone_ that they needed a week together. After all, who knew when time would free up again?

So Kurt did the right thing by his friends and family, bit his tongue, helped to set up the essentials in everyone's rooms, and made a mental note to guilt trip _all of them _into buying coffee for him at every opportunity over the next year or two. He was owed, God dammit.

On top of being tired he honestly liked the idea of just sitting at home for an evening; hell he was in _love_ with the idea have having an actual apartment and not a motel room. Touring was great and all, the fans and venues were almost always amazing, but there was just _such_ charm to having something concrete and predictable to call your own he didn't even know he'd missed. He remembered, though, fiercely, when he unpacked his dad and Carole's wedding photo to set up on the mantle of their fake fireplace.

He didn't cry for them anymore, Kurt had overcome the misty-eyed part of mourning years before, but he couldn't say that there was no hollow left in his chest by the loss of his parents. Most of the time it was a dormant ache but the new apartment brought it to the surface. It made him remember fussing over Burt's cholesterol, baking with Carole, and Friday night dinners. It also made him remember just why he'd always been so wary of "settling".

Noah, being Noah, his best friend, closest confidant and a mind reader of psychotic fucking proportions, had caught onto what was going on inside of Kurt pretty damn quick. He hadn't even been around to see Kurt's hands shake when he settled the picture between the one of Santana and Jules' elopement and Mercedes portrait. Still, he knew. One look, as he came loping in from the kitchen and found Kurt nestled on the couch, staring off into space, and Noah knew _exactly_ what was going on.

"Well, _you're_ not doing right by your stereotype this evening," Noah said as he plopped down onto the end opposite Kurt. It was a nice couch, very big, very soft and very squishy with its microfiber-esque cover. Also, it was blue enough to match Kurt's eyes when he was feeling particularly moody—like right then. For all of those reasons, but especially the last, it was his favorite piece of furniture in the apartment. As long as he didn't think about how many other artists Geffen had put up there and the myriad of gross things that may have occurred upon its soft surface.

Pushing those thoughts down along with the urge to get a black light, Kurt rolled his head to the left where Noah sat. His best friend was slicing up one of the Bartlett pears they'd purchased the previous evening from the corner grocery. There was something fascinating about how Noah's hands looked while he slid the knife in and out of the pear's brown skin. They were thick and calloused from so many years of guitar playing and hard work yet they held both blade and fruit with a delicacy that, at first glance, one would hardly suspect Noah to possess. He offered the first slice over to Kurt who accepted it with a nod of thanks.

"What do you mean?" Kurt asked after the first bite was taken and swallowed.

Noah did not share Kurt's manners and spoke with a grin and a mouth full of half-masticated pear. "Gay's supposed to mean happy, right? You don't look too happy, Bright-Eyes."

Kurt rolled his eyes. "I'm _tired_, Noah. _Some_ of us have been unpacking like we promised to, _not_ just rifling through Padma's vibrators." His eyes narrowed on his best friend who gave what was probably supposed to be an innocent grin in return. "And, by the way, you better have re-taped that box because I will _not_ cover for you. Nosy freak."

Another slice of pear went into Noah's mouth as he replied. "Do _not_ take the high road with me, pal. Not when you've dug in Santana and Jules' treasure box too."

"That's different," Kurt deadpanned. "I'm gay; that was merely…_window shopping_."

"Oh, yeah that totally makes it _not _nosy," Noah said as he took his turn to roll his eyes. "That is so…yeah, and what the _fuck_ would you do with a double ended dildo?"

"It could come in handy if I ever fell in love with another bottom."

The knife and what was left of the pear fell to the coffee table as Noah choked a little then started to laugh so hard that _he_ nearly toppled over as well. Kurt giggled too; that _had _been a pretty good one, as far as pithy retorts went.

"_Oh my God_," Noah wheezed. "_Why_ couldn't your brother have been here for that? _Why_? He would've turned purple!"

"You know, I kind of _don't_ want to be the reason Finn dies of an aneurysm," Kurt chuckled. "And do you _really_ want to break in a new drummer? I don't. We've barely gotten my brother trained to handle touring, so new guy? No thank you."

Noah only chuckled, picking his food back up. "Your point, Bright Eyes." Another slice of pear was offered but Kurt declined and resumed his previous position, staring up at the ceiling. The two of them sat in the quiet for a few comfortable moments, the sounds of Noah's cutting and chewing being all that rumpled the air.

"You know, in five days this swinging bachelor pad," he gestured about the just _barely_ unpacked living room, "turns into the Allied Album Makers Encampment."

The tone Noah used was trying so hard for nonchalant that Kurt almost pinched his cheek for it. Instead, he settled for, "Good alliteration," and a smirk.

"Thank you. Gonna ask me what my point is?"

Kurt continued to smirk and Noah pushed his arm playfully.

"Be that way," Noah said, turning his nose up at Kurt like offended royalty. The snotty attitude lasted only a few seconds before giggling on both their parts made the face crumble into a grin. "_Fine_, my point _is_: we need to go out. Tonight."

A groan bubbled up in Kurt's throat and ran past his lips before he even had time to think about. "_Noah_…" The other man's name came out as such a pathetic whine that it made Kurt's stomach turn.

"Whiny voice doesn't work on me, remember? _I am immune_."

"Yeah, like with mace."

"Hey, some of the really strong batches still hurt." They both got a chuckle out of that and, for a moment, Kurt thought that Noah was going to drop this scheme. Noah Puckerman's flightiness was _not_ something that had really changed since the early days; he still came up with "brilliant" ideas that he tired of mere moments after their conception, most of the time, anyway. Unfortunately for Kurt, there were a few that stuck and this particular idea was going to no exception.

"Come on, go make your face up and let's paint the town red!" Noah said, slapping Kurt on the knee as he bounded to his feet. The look on his face was far too much like Finn's at Christmas time, and it made Kurt groan aloud. Yeah, there was no fucking way Noah would be dropping this. Still, he felt obligated to fight him just a little; it would make them both feel just awful if he didn't.

"Noah, I don't feel like being with people," he said in his second most wretched voice. Kurt made his eyes extra big and dewy, batting them up at the taller man like that would somehow sway him. "I mean, really, I _am_ tired, and we still have stuff to take care of in the girls' apartment _aside_ from poking around in their sex toys."

"Fuck that shit in the ear," Noah said waving his hand dismissively. "Their beds are set up and it does _not_ take you _that_ long to throw sheets on a mattress. The rest of settling in is on _their_ vacationing asses. _And zip it_!" The last line came at Kurt before his lips had even parted, startling him. Moments when Noah could practically read his mind were endearing when it involved him putting in "Princess Bride" for Kurt after sensing the day was going badly. Other times (like that moment, per say) when Noah strong-armed him into doing what was best for himself, Kurt found it a little hard not to hate him.

Luckily, Noah got _that_ too, and before Kurt could throw a tantrum Noah was sitting on the edge of the coffee table in front of him, with his best no-nonsense look in place. Which, over the years had actually become _pretty_ good, given the practice Noah had given it. In any case, it surely worked to balk Kurt's temper and get him to (at least for the moment) bite his tongue.

"We're here for over half a year, Kurt," Noah said. "You can't just hide out in your room when we're not working like some deranged poet. That's Jules' job and you _know_ how pissy she gets when you steal her shtick." He smirked a little and Kurt could not help but to mirror it; Jules _did_ hate it when someone else tried to hedge in on her moody-artist territory.

Kurt knew that he could have begged his way out; Noah was pushy but he'd never really _forced_ Kurt to do anything he really didn't want to. Jules, Santana, and Rachel had a monopoly on that shit. He might have given in to the urge, waved his best friend off and gone back to unpacking, but while he mulled the decision over, Kurt's eyes drifted back to the fake fireplace and its mantle.

_Right_. There was no way Kurt could stay in that night. Not with a dull throb just under his ribs that reminded him being alive meant you went out and actually _lived_.

Kurt sighed maybe a little (very) melodramatically and stood up. "Okay, fine, out we go."

Noah fist-pumped the air and jumped up. "Yes! You clean up and I'll Google, 'kay?"

"Um, I shower, you shower, _then_ there can be Googling," Kurt told him sternly. He reached out to tug on Noah's careworn "lucky" OSU hoodie. "I am _not_ going out with you dressed like a hobo. While the scent of a man is…_nice_, there's a difference between _Eau de Testostérone _and sweaty pig."

Noah glared, smacking (lightly) at Kurt's hand. "I do _not_ stink! I showered this morning, _thank you very much_!"

"And _then_ you went for a run and then you lugged boxes up stairs, around this apartment _and_ through the girls'." It was Kurt's turn to wear the no-nonsense face; he even added a raised eyebrow and crossed arms for good measure. "I may not be as high maintenance as I used to be, but I am _not_ going out in public with you like _that_, buddy. In fact…" Kurt grinned his best evil grin, which, for the record, was probably _not_ that intimidating but he was sure it would worry Noah sufficiently enough. "I'm just going to go ahead and pick out your clothes."

The groan that Noah gave was as good as music to Kurt's ears. "Aw, come _on_, dude!"

"_Too late_," Kurt sang, practically dancing to his room. "Don't you dare be dressed when I come knocking!"

Despite the continued grumbling that followed Kurt out of the living room and down the hall, he knew Noah wasn't _that_ upset about his decree. He had accepted that Kurt's eye was better _years_ ago and had learned simply to appreciate all the attention that being dressed by his sassy gay friend brought him from the ladies. Most of the time, anyway; Kurt would never be able to talk Noah into skinny jeans again, not after the last pair nearly "castrated" him.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It killed Kurt to admit it but Noah had been right, a night out was exactly what the doctor ordered. New Haven was an amazing city, cultured and comfortable by day with nightlife that wouldn't exactly blush like a virgin when he compared it to what he'd seen in places like New York and L.A.

Leaving the apartment around five o'clock, Noah, his Googled city guides in hand, had dragged Kurt out for dinner to a Moroccan restaurant only a block or so away from their apartment building. They'd decided to make a walk of it, the restaurant being so close and the weather being nice enough, which Kurt didn't really mind because _he_ could remember to dress like it was January. Noah, however, by the time they made it to Saïdia's, was wishing he'd grabbed more than his leather jacket. Kurt tried not to appear too amused when his best friend ordered a giant mug of hot tea and burned his tongue on it in a rush to warm himself up. Other than Noah losing a few taste buds, though, their dinner of touareg, zaalouk, mrouzia, and ma'amoul was absolutely wonderful. At least for him, Noah's palette was, understandably, a bit dulled.

They fought a little over the bill when it came up, as Noah, trying to be a good best friend used his manly wiles (yes, wiles, if any straight man was ever charming to the point of melting panties off of a woman, it was Noah Puckerman) to have the receipt delivered to him. After some arguing and a very short thumb-wrestling match Kurt conceded his loss and let Noah pay for dinner—though he made it clear the tip was all on him.

As they waited for the waitress to bring back his debit card, Noah pulled out the city guides again, pushing them towards Kurt and telling him to pick where they were going next. He contemplated torturing Noah just a little more by choosing a Go-go bar or a drag club but, ultimately, Kurt decided against that. Noah was being pretty good that night, aside from the whole leaving the house without winter gear in fucking January thing. Also, Kurt hated both types of places.

Though there would always be a special spot in his heart for his first love, Kurt (and Blaine) had discovered upon leaving behind the narrow-minded world of small town Ohio just what _options_ were. His starry-eyed outlook on sex and relationships in general had rather cheerfully fallen apart once he was part of the OSU "herd" of openly gay men. There were _types_ of guys out and proud in the world, theater geeks were only a fraction of it, and, while he started out sampling everything, he found his favorites pretty quick. Fellow pretty boys (_he_ could say it because he was one, dammit) weren't bad to make out with but Kurt was only in to masturbation when nothing else was available. His earliest crushes (Brad Pitt, Russell Crowe, Robert Downey Jr.) were all on the manly, rugged side and well, once _that_ became a viable choice, that's what Kurt went for. That preference for the strapping kind was also what led him to pick Saguaro out of Noah's guides.

Just reading the name had him thinking "Leather Bar" (come on, what went better with cacti than cowboys? Big, sexy, _gay_ cowboys?), which while also not to his exact tastes, was close enough. Plus it would make Noah _super_ uncomfortable; at least until there was a fair amount of alcohol in him and he found another stag forcibly dragged out for the night to pal around with. The little summary in the guide, though, said that the place was:

"_An indie bar with a very open atmosphere and great service. Located in scenic downtown New Haven, right at the heart of the city's activity. The drinks aren't bad either."_

That last bit was what decided it for Kurt, any place that could pay to poke fun of itself was worth a visit. He announced his choice to Noah, who, to his credit, only made a _slight_ face (yeah, he really wasn't a fan of the leather bar) when he nodded his consent. Saguaro was only four blocks away but they took a cab since Noah probably wouldn't have made it half a block hoofing it again, especially since a light snowfall had begun. Kurt was charitable enough not to tease Noah as he started shivering on the cab ride over; one day, the man would learn the purpose of gloves and scarves. _One fucking day_.

Saguaro, to Kurt's mild disappointment, turned out _not_ to be a leather bar but that didn't dampen anything. Like the guide said, the atmosphere was quite open; he saw a pretty fair mix of lesbian, gay, and straight couples around. The layout was really nice too, all stained glass windows and that sort of old-fashioned architecture that you only found in places on the east coast. He enjoyed the muted lighting of Saguaro too; Kurt had his fair share of nights where the only thing he wanted to do was dance under a strobe but he discovered the older he got, the fewer and more far between those nights became. Overall the place was just…_nice_, very relaxed and inviting. Kurt would have been perfectly content to sit at the bar all evening and nurse his White Russian while Noah threw back shots of Jack had _someone_ not caught his eye.

He was a tall, broad shouldered guy, solidly built on a beautiful line that wasn't muscle crazy or flabby. There was _some_ stubble on his face, not a full beard but certainly more than a five o'clock shadow, and while Kurt didn't have the best view of the rest of that visage, he was pretty sure it was just as delectable. Then there were the arms, the big, thick, lightly furred arms that peeked out from beneath his button-down and ended in equally sturdy hands that moved carefully to steer or lightly grip his two dance partners. Those arms looked like they could toss Kurt like a ragdoll and _fuck_ if that didn't have him half-hard just thinking about it.

Now, admittedly, Kurt was technically what you might call "hard up". It had been almost two years since his last steady relationship and six months since he'd been laid. To be honest though, sex was usually at the very back of Kurt's mind _not_ because he had a scared teenager's view of it, but, because most of Kurt's life for the past seven years had been spent on a tour bus; he was busy and the career came before the libido (hell, the career came before the _heart_). Six out of seven nights, the _only_ thing that Kurt wanted before he fell into his bed was a hot shower to rinse off the ten gallons of sweat that had poured out while under the hot stage lights. That other one night, generally, he wanted a cup of soup _then_ the shower before he passed out.

On _that_ night at Saguaro, though, all of Kurt's hormones came screeching back to life as he watched the man in the black button-down shirt and he wanted something else for the first time in forever.

Kurt sat there watching the other man dance for goodness only knows how long, eyes glued to those broad shoulders. He felt a little like his teenage self as his brain fired off ten million ways to get the guy's attention but his body listened to none of them. Shy and blushing Kurt had pretty much died in late 2012 and yet somehow there he was, perched on a barstool and totally at loss. It was embarrassing and thrilling all at once.

"Ooh, he's _fuckable_." Kurt suddenly remembered he was _not_ alone as Noah leaned against him, arm draped over his shoulder. He winced and blushed at the same time; Noah's interest in Kurt's sex life rarely resulted in anything than many, many awkward apologies on Kurt's part. "I'd get a hotel room with that. You know. If I liked dick."

"The way you perk up when you talk about who I might fuck makes me wonder if you really _don't_," Kurt teased, hoping against hope that he could somehow sidetrack his best friend.

"I know, right? I'm not saying I haven't thought about but man, dicks look _weird_. And I love boobs. Boobs are _so_ amazing. And soft." A dopey grin spread across Noah's face. "Dude, where's Santana with my 'hells yeah'?"

Kurt chuckled, a soft bubble of relief starting to swell up through his stomach. Perhaps a little disappointment too, since Noah tended to be his courage when he needed pushing, but he told himself that it was for the best and kept his eyes off of the man in the black button-down. He patted Noah's shoulder with his free hand. "Currently in Rio, playing with _Jules_' boobs in all likelihood."

"Hehe, yeah," Noah agreed, a less dopey more _sentimental_ smirk taking over. For a second Kurt was feeling very fond of Noah, what with his carefully guarded romanticism. His best friend killed that pretty quick, though, with his next actions. Inwardly, Kurt mocked himself for daring to think that putting Noah off his goal would be so damn easy.

"Well, then, time to get _you_ something to play with Bright-Eyes," Noah said, a certain spark in his eye that worried Kurt like nothing else. That little bubble in Kurt's stomach burst and before he could so much as twitch Noah had waved over the nearest waitress.

"_No_—" Kurt didn't even get the full name out before one of Noah's hand had clapped itself over his mouth.

"Quiet, you'll thank me later!" Noah hissed to him. To the waitress, a grumpy looking little thing with bright lavender hair and a nametag that read "Tiff", he gave his most charming smile. She didn't seem too impressed with that but Noah carried on anyway, true to form. "Hey, that guy in the black shirt?" He jerked his head towards the dance floor where the current object of Kurt's lust and his two friends were still moving about. Tiff followed his gaze, looked back at Noah, turned her eyes pointedly on Kurt (who was still being held in place by just one of Noah's arms) and smirked. Kurt immediately didn't like that smirk; it was a bit too sharkish for him to feel safe.

"Yeah?" the waitress said.

"You know if he's single or not?"

Again Tiff looked over Kurt and her devious smile intensified. "I believe he's on the market, yeah. Why?"

"My friend," he shook Kurt a little, "would like to send him a drink. Would that be possible?"

"If you can cover the price of the drink it is," Tiff said. "Anything you want me to tell him?"

"Just make sure that he knows it's from this guy," Noah said giving Kurt another shake. "Can do?"

"Can done," Tiff agreed an actual pleasant look settling onto her face as Noah passed her money for the drink plus a tip. "Don't sweat it, I know his favorite. And don't _you_ sweat too much, pretty boy," that scary smile was back as her eyes found Kurt again. "You're _totally_ his type." And with that she had disappeared behind the bar, out of reach.

"You _ass_!" Kurt hissed the moment that Noah dropped his hand. He punched his best friend in the arm, which, given how Noah and Finn had forced him to learn _how_ to throw one, was actually pretty forceful. He ignored Noah's yelp and hit him again. "You complete motherfucking _ass_! I didn't ask you to help! Why? Why would you do that to me? Now he's going to come over here and I don't even _know_ if I want him to!"

Noah rolled his eyes, as if Kurt was a slow kid who needed the intricacies of how glue sticks worked explained to him. Kurt raised his arm to deliver another blow but Noah had sobered up enough by then to catch his wrist. "Stop that! I will spank you! In the middle of this bar I will put you over my knee and spank you, Kurt Hummel. Then that guy will see and we won't be able to explain it off and then everyone's going to think we're a couple and _neither _of us will be able to get laid until we're on tour again! _And even then it'll still be difficult because the fans will start writing slash fiction about us again and I do not want any more teenage girls sending us their stories where Finn and I pass __**you**__ around like a bag of Cheetos at a pot party!_"

He took a deep breath and dropped Kurt's wrist, settling it in his lap and then adjusting Kurt's vest. Kurt was too gob smacked by the intensity of Noah's rant and the crazed gleam in his eye to brush him off. He _really_ didn't want to be spanked, either, that was _not _his kink…at least not with a man who was practically his brother.

"Now," Noah began, far more calmly than before, though there was a new sternness to his voice that Kurt wasn't so fond of. "I am going to go over there," he gesticulated a little wildly so it was _anyone's_ guess on just where he meant, "and you are going to stay here, meet a dude and attempt a human connection. If he's freaky just wave me over, I'll pretend to be your jealous boyfriend, we'll make a scene and then we'll blow. Good plan? I knew it was. You're welcome." And with a final tug to the brim of Kurt's fedora (for fuck knows only what reason) he took his whiskey and marched away.

Kurt knew that he had every right and perhaps even some slight motivation (who in the hell did Noah think he was, bossing him around like that? Honestly?) to walk away, but he stayed on his stool anyway. Partially because he knew that fighting Noah's will was useless, so he wasn't going to even try it. And partially because Kurt recognized the point of what his best friend was trying to say, despite all of the weird, drunken, and overzealous shit it was buried in; he needed to actually try and have a life outside of work. Maybe hooking up with the hot guy in the black button-down was factoring in there too, but mostly it was Noah's point. Well, at _least half_.

Checking his face in the polished granite surface of the bar, Kurt tried to figure out just where he wanted to go with this, if it got anywhere at all, of course. He wasn't such a lifeless prude any more that he looked on one-night stands with disdain but that didn't mean he wanted one if there was a possibility of more than that. After all, he was in Connecticut, one of the best states to be gay in so if he was going to look for a boyfriend then New Haven was a good place to try. He was still waffling on whether or not he just wanted to be a slut that night when a light tap to his right shoulder along with the words, "Um…hey, Tiff said this was compliments of you?", delivered in a soft baritone, interrupted that train of thought.

Thoughts sort of got turned off completely, for just a moment, when Kurt turned around to meet the _most_ gorgeous amber-green eyes he'd ever seen. Said eyes were settled beneath almost elegantly arched brows and over a slight Roman nose. His mouth was a provocatively drawn curve; currently parted in what Kurt could only hope was surprise and intrigue. Up close he was just as solid as he looked on the dance floor, even more, in fact, and he smelled like an intoxicating mixture of sweat and beautifully subtle cologne (there was nothing worse than a man who doused himself in that shit). Best of all, though, (_aside_ from those fucking arms which Kurt forcefully reminded himself _not_ to try and pet) was his hair, a mass of dark, soft curls. Kurt wanted to run his fingers through that thick mop and find out what it looked like in the morning _desperately_.

All thoughts of behaving like a gentleman that night were out of the window in less than a second. The universe had just handed him sex personified and _fuck_ if he was going to argue with it when it came with _those_ eyes. On went Kurt Hummel's most beguiling smile and he leaned forward just a little, hands on his knees.

"Hey," he said trying for a sultry undertone to his voice and looked at the other man from beneath his lashes. "You…ugh…you looked like you were working up quite a sweat out there with your…_friends_?" _Oh, for shit's sake, Kurt, __**seductive**__! Not desperate! Even if you'd kill to hit that_.

There was a strange moment where Kurt feared he actually may have been laying it on too thick as he noticed that the other man's eyes were blown wide, the pupil and iris both retracting to nothing more than a thin, speckled-green ring around a black dot. A touch of color had left his face as well and the glass he held in his right hand seemed to be slipping through his fingers. Kurt knew he was pretty easy on the eyes but no one, not even fans of the band lost words in his presence. And besides that, there wasn't any awe or adulation in that man's face, just shock; pure, unfiltered shock and maybe the barest trace of fear. Kurt wouldn't register any of that until later, though.

He was about to ask his new acquaintance his name or perhaps try a witty line like "Cat got your tongue?" but the other man spoke first.

"You don't remember me, do you?" That low, gentle baritone had a strange ring to it.

_No, sorry, haven't seen any personifications of sex, just you know __**walking**__** around**__, sorry._ He actually had to bite his tongue to keep from saying that out loud. Like some insipid little schoolboy not a twenty-six-year-old veteran of all that was gay on three continents. _Three_. Well, okay, so Japan was the only Asian locale he'd visited and _only_ twice for a grand total that probably amounted to less than a week but he was still going to count it, _dammit_.

Mildly, Kurt began to panic, wondering if he had, by some strange one in a million chance, already slept with the guy in front of him (that one year in college had been kind of crazy) and forgotten it. He leaned in closer to look at his companion's face, worry and guilt building as familiarity began to twinge at the edges of his mind. "Um…no, should I…" Kurt's voice waned as the realization of whom he was speaking to hit him upside the head like a mac truck.

_Karofsky. No. Fucking. Way_.

In the half a second or so Kurt had to digest this fact, over a dozen emotions clamored through his head; none of them, surprisingly, were fear. Shock and surprise were pretty dominant with a heavy touch of embarrassment because holy shit, how did he _not _get who it was sooner? Relief, very briefly registered as well; there had always, since Karofsky just disappeared from McKinley one week after Kurt's return from Dalton, been a black fear at the back of Kurt's head on the other boy's (well, _man_ now) behalf.

Though he was at an absolute loss for what to say Kurt really didn't have to worry about it for long. Noah, overeager as always to help him out, was suddenly at his side.

"Dude, Kurt, you're drowning, I got ya." Noah slung an arm around Kurt's shoulders; his toothy grin and sparkling eyes told Kurt that he wasn't going to like _anything _that was shortly to come out of his best friend's mouth.

Kurt's stomach rolled out of habit and he tried to nip whatever awful thing Noah was about to do in the bud. "Um, Noah…" his tone was soft, a gentle plea and warning that he prayed Noah would pay attention to. It didn't work, of course.

Noah waved him off nonchalantly, almost like a Kurt was a child pulling on his shirtsleeve while Noah tried to have a conversation with another adult. "Shh, Bright-Eyes, Imma help you get some!" Kurt's best friend turned his attention to Karofsky, who, strangely, looked like he might throw up or pass out, perhaps even both. The same smile Noah had used on the waitress at Saïdia's went up.

"Listen, dude," Noah began like some sort of car salesman, "I'm not gay but even _I_ know prime twink real estate when I see it. Hell, if we weren't such good friends, and I was drunk enough, _and_ he wore a dress with some falsies, I _might_ try hittin' it."

"_Noah_!" Kurt hissed, ignoring for a moment how his voice his voice was getting close to sharing the same frequency as the whistle of a teakettle in favor of _utter_ mortification. For all the blood that had drained from Karofsky's face Kurt's seemed to flood with twice as much; his head probably resembled an oversized beet sitting on his shoulders.

None of this registered to Noah, though, and again, he shushed Kurt like a child.

"Hush, you've been ogling him forever, I'm tryin' to help you, stupid." Noah glared at him, like he was the dumbest thing on the planet before turned back to Karofsky, who was _still_ paralyzed in place. "Now, here's why you should take my friend home. A, lookit this face!" Noah grabbed him by the chin before Kurt could react and shook _then _he kissed the side of his head. Loudly. "How the fuck can you say _no_ to that? Really! It'd be a crime! B, two words here, buddy: _enjoys fisting_. There—"

"_Goddamn it, Noah, it's Dave Karofsky_!" exploded out of Kurt like there was dynamite in his belly. Noah certainly looked like he'd been slapped with a stick of it, the way his jaw dropped and his eyes widened. The arm around Kurt's shoulder's fell away as Noah looked rapidly between him and Karofsky several times then at his drink.

"Karofsky," he murmured disbelievingly, as if it was a drunken hallucination or something. "_Shit_, I am _drunk_."

A terse reply was simmering on Kurt's tongue but that was stilled by a sharp "thunk" and a crack. Kurt jumped, whirling back towards Karofsky only to find his drink on the floor where he'd once stood and his back retreating through the bar. Déjà vu hit Kurt sharp and high in the chest. It had been ten years but Dave Karofsky still had the gait of a wounded animal when he was running away.

Kurt had absolutely no rational idea of why he did what he did next. For several moments he sat, catatonic on his barstool as his brain tried to process everything that had just happened. Not because he was disgusted, at least with anything other than Noah's big, stupid mouth, but because it all seemed so damned unreal. Maybe it was the disbelief that had him jumping up and grabbing his coat, that intense need to verify he had actually seen David Karofsky living and breathing. It _had_ to be that, at least in part, but that didn't make chasing after Karofsky a saner idea by any means.

He should have stopped to think about a thousand things other than just ordering Noah to take care of the tab before darting off. Maybe Karofsky was still in the closet, married with a cover family to guard his self-inflicted shame. Maybe that locker room kiss that had shaken Kurt's so long ago had just been a teenager's confusion and Karofsky couldn't bear to be in the same room with him for disgust. He could have still been a psychotic ass and the only thing keeping him from punching Kurt's head off was the will to stay out of prison. Later on, Kurt would see how he should have considered each and every one of these things before running after the person who'd threatened to kill him when they were both still a couple of ignorant kids. He would _also_ laugh quietly to himself over the irony of chasing after Dave Karofsky _yet again_.

He stopped in the middle of the room for a moment, scanning as Karofsky had been lost in the crowd while Kurt was still sitting dumbstruck at the bar. Kurt spied the other man rushing away from a table where several people sat, his dance partners included, tugging on a coat as he fled to the doors. Pushing his way through a few throngs of people Kurt kept up the pursuit, not caring how rude he was being when he elbowed a few. The manic urge to catch up with Karofsky to…well, Kurt wasn't sure _what_ he wanted to do just yet. He _did_ know, however, that after ten years peppered with a few nightmares and sporadic therapy sessions that an awkward look was _not_ going to be the only thing that transpired between them. It just couldn't be.

The midnight air of New Haven's January was especially biting, even more so since Kurt had forgone his gloves and scarf in his rush, but he paid little attention to the cold as it attempted to burrow into his marrow. Karofsky was already close to half a block ahead of him and Kurt did not have time to play with either of them.

"Hey!" he called at Karofsky's leather clad back. The other man either did not hear or ignored him. "_Hey_!" Kurt doubled his energy into a sprint, the cold air burning his lungs as he sucked it down. Still, he feared that he wouldn't be able to catch up to Karofsky, especially if he hailed a cab, so he shouted again, as loudly and as urgently as he could. "_God dammit, Karofsky, would you __**please**__ stop_?"

And it worked. Like the magic words to Ali Baba's cave, his plea had Karofsky's legs stilling at once, giving Kurt a chance to catch up. He skidded to a halt several feet in front of the other man, panting hard on the hard, icy air.

They stared at one another for what felt like ages, Kurt red-faced and trying to catch his breath and Karofsky with that same wide-eyed, nauseous look as before. Kurt was, now that he had actually caught the other man, at a loss. Adrenaline ebbing beneath the soft glow of a bakery's neon "open" sign, Kurt had _no_ idea of what to say. Well, that wasn't completely true, after all there were _plenty _of things he wanted to say, or more accurately plenty of questions that he had to ask. It was where he should begin—_where in the fuck he __**could**__ begin_—that had Kurt's tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Karofsky didn't seem to be doing much better, either, truthfully he looked slightly afraid which _really_ threw Kurt. In fact it actually sort of stung.

"I…um…" Kurt fumbled to speak, to find _something_ that wouldn't send Karofsky running away like all deer-startled-by-a-car-horn again. "You—I—I mean—"

"Dave!"

"Kurt!"

"Davey!"

Both he and Karofsky jerked at the sound of voices somewhere behind Kurt. They looked in unison, back toward Saguaro, and found the man and woman Karofsky had been dancing with, along with Noah, jogging toward them. Albeit Noah was lagging behind about twenty feet; the man had absolutely _no_ coordination when he was liquored up. Kurt's eyes met Karofsky's again and, for some odd reason, found comfort in the fact that he too seemed to be having the thoughts of "Oh, great" running through his head. They waited for their respective companions in silence.

"Dude, what the fuck is going on?" the woman asked as soon as she was within a range where she wouldn't have to yell to be heard, face etched with concern. It was a pretty face, Kurt decided, heart shaped and pale without being sallow with full lips, a petite Nubian nose and blue eyes so dark he almost thought they were black in the midnight light. She was a full figured girl and _tall_, probably topping him by an inch or so, with surprisingly delicate looking hands that reached out for Karofsky's arm.

For a second Kurt was sure she was Karofsky's beard or girlfriend, the way she touched him so carefully and informally. That idea faded when Kurt saw how she looked at Karofsky, though. There was love in her inky stare but no heat, no passion. There was _some _heat when her eyes flicked to Kurt, but it wasn't the good kind. It was the same I-will-end-you fire that _Kurt's_ lady friends wore when they thought someone might hurt _him_. Kurt had never had that particular glare turned on him before so, in a way it was a novelty. A scary novelty, but a novelty nonetheless.

"Everything okay?" It was the man who spoke this time. He walked past Kurt to Karofsky, laying a hand on Karofsky's shoulder. _He_ was kind of pretty too, in a sexy-nerd way. Taller than Karofsky by a few inches but so thin he still seemed diminutive next to Karofsky and the woman, he had a dreamer's long-lashed, baby blue eyes set above a straight nose. Below that his mouth was plump and naturally dark, like a woman's really. His jaw, chin and cheekbones were sort of delicate looking, framed by dark, longish hair that probably wouldn't comb into a tidy style if Kurt used every ounce of product that he owned.

Karofsky didn't really have a chance to answer either of his friends.

"Dude!" Noah exclaimed, causing everybody to jump just a bit; he was becoming _way _too good at that. He staggered forward to lean against Kurt (who momentarily thought about pushing him over for the way he'd acted in the bar), hazel eyes wide and disbelieving as they focused on Karofsky. "_Dude_!" Noah moved suddenly, way more suddenly than he usually did when he was intoxicated, getting right in front of Karofsky and poking the other guy's chest with his index finger.

"_You_," Noah said, almost accusingly while Karofsky simply stared at him. "We thought _you _were dead! For serious! Not even Azimio knew what happened to you and your 'rents! Everyone thought the mob laid a hit out on your family and shit!"

"Well..." Karofsky murmured, red-faced and unsure. "Um…they _didn't _and I—I'm _not_ dead, so…"

"Wait a sec, who the _hell_ are you?" it was the woman again, that murderous gleam returning to her eyes, this time for Noah. She wasn't particularly violent when she did it but she was still quite forceful (and scary, really, really scary) when she pushed Noah's hand away and wedged herself between he and Karofsky.

While Kurt panicked that his best friend was going to get a beat down their first night out in their temporary new town, he also noticed that Karofsky and the man at his side looked equally uneasy. That was a good sign; if the woman decided to kick the shit out of Noah her friends would probably hold her back. Probably. Noah, in the meantime, did what he usually would in front of an angry looking lady with ample curves; he flirted.

"Noah Puckerman, at your service," he said, only slurring his words a little. Noah's trademark rakish grin slid into place. Kurt hoped his best friend didn't do anything too stupid, that smile would _not_ work with missing teeth. "Guitarist, philosopher, his Stag," he jerked his head vaguely in Kurt's direction, "_sex machine_. And _you_ are?"

"Kyle Queen," the woman deadpanned crossing her arms, the very portrait of indifference. "Artist, cunt, _his Hag_," she nodded to Karofsky, "and I already have a vibrator, princess. _And_ if you poke at him again, you'll be losing that hand."

"Oh Jeebus…" the thin man sighed as he and Karofsky exchanged a tired look.

"Kyle, easy," Karofsky said pulling her back into his side. "It's fine."

"Oh, it is _not_ fine!" Kyle exclaimed. "First _he_," she gestured to Kurt who really had to force himself not to shudder under her glare, "buys you a drink then you come running back to the table all freaked out and saying you've got to go! _Then_ you're out here in the cold still with the freaked out face _with_ drink guy and _he_," Noah got the stink-eye that time and he flinched openly, "is chasing you too, talking about thinking you were dead and mafia shit! None of that is fine, not even a little. And _especially_ not when _you_ look like you've seen a ghost. So tell me what the fuck is going on, David James Karofsky!"

Kurt wasn't the only one who cowered at the ferocious edge in Kyle's words; all three other men joined him in shrinking away from her just a few steps. Noah had even sobered up enough to put away his flirty smile and stop staring at her chest.

"Well?" she prompted, her steely eyes leveled solely on Karofsky.

Karofsky looked down at his feet and let out a shaky breath, rubbing the back of his neck as he did. "We went to high school together," he said. "All three of us." More quietly to the point of almost being inaudible, he added, "This is Kurt Hummel, Kyle."

The bitch-face was gone in a blink, crumbling as Kyle and the yet-to-be-named man looked at Kurt, jaws slack with surprise. Kurt shifted uncomfortably under their stares; they had heard mention of him, that was obvious enough. He had to wonder just _what_ they knew, what Karofsky had said about him. A weird little thing at the back of his mind believed Karofsky may have told them the truth.

"Ooh…" the man murmured. "_Ooh…_"

"Ugh-huh," Kyle agreed, gnawing at her plump lower lip. "So," her eyes flicked back to Karofsky, "you two were _talking_?"

"Um…yeah…" Karofsky said eyes still intent on his red leather Nikes. "I…yeah."

Kyle still appeared uneasy but she nodded and reached out quickly squeeze his hand before grabbing hold of her other friend.

"C'mon, Jude, let's buy our new friend a burrito," she ordered. Kyle cocked an eyebrow at Noah and beckoned him toward her with one finger. "You? You like burritos? We're getting you one. Come with us."

Noah was grinning again. "Baby, I'd eat _anything_ you put in front of me." He leered blatantly at her breasts, which even her winter coat couldn't really camouflage. "_Anything_."

Kyle made face. "Okay, ground rules. Do _not _call me baby, stop staring at my tits and cut with the lines. I'm an adult that shit will _not_ work. Furthermore I'll be confiscating any part of you that touches me, so, I'd march a few feet to my left." She snapped her fingers. "C'mon move it, I want some salsa." Looking back at Karofsky she said, "We'll be at Chipotle."

"But—" the other man, _Jude_, Kurt reminded himself, started to protest, looking worriedly between Kurt and Karofsky.

"Jude, burritos now, _come on_." Kyle all but dragged him across the street with her.

Noah looked between Kurt and Kyle and Jude, clearly not horny/drunk enough to just abandon him with Karofsky. Not without permission at least. Kurt really loved Noah for that, it said a lot about how the other man really felt if he was pausing from chasing a pretty girl. "Dude, are you gonna…" His eyes shifted uneasily to Karofsky, who was _still_ looking at his shoes.

Kurt nodded. "Yeah, ugh—I—yeah. It's fine. Go eat. And _try_ not to be an ass. I think she really will rip your arm off and beat you to death with it."

The grin returned. "I know, right? _S'hot_." He nudged Kurt's shoulder with his own then went jogging after Kyle and Jude.

The awkwardness that had so permeated the atmosphere between Kurt and Karofsky resurfaced with the departure of their respective friends. Kurt bounced on the balls of his feet, copying Karofsky's intent way of studying the ground. He heard the other man shuffling just as uneasily, scuffing his heels against the concrete.

"So…" Karofsky began, Kurt glanced up to find his tongue playing at the right corner of his mouth. "I guess I owe you an explanation or two and…" he sighed heavily, tiredly, but also like a weight was coming off. He lifted his head, his molten gold-brown green-flecked eyes finally meeting Kurt's green-blue. "Look, you want to do this inside somewhere? It's cold as shit out here and you probably want to catch a cold even less than me."

Kurt nodded vigorously. "Yes. Yeah. That'd be…great. Um…where…?"

Karofsky jerked his head toward the bakery they stood in front of. "S'open all night and they're not bad. You want coffee?"

"I won't say no," Kurt told him.

It was Karofsky's turn to nod and he moved to open the bakery door, holding it open for Kurt like a gentleman.


	5. All The Words Left Unsaid

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** My beta, aureliamonte, is in a bit of a rush with being sick, school stuff and dealing with internet problems. Since I'd been sitting on this for over a week like an anxious cat, I went ahead and combed it over a few times myself and decided to post. I hope everything's okay with you, dear. Another thank you goes to my dear winterswallows for _her_ help, guidance and annoying way of being right. And also, a final thank you to ducttapeofdoom for the inspiration for a section of this chapter (I think you know which part it was, dear).

It's occurred to me that, with the way I've already plotted events out, this story is probably officially an AU now. So to be clear, starting with the little push-fest between Dave and Blaine where Santana broke them up and all events afterward concerning David Karofsky at McKinley? Didn't happen here.

About the lateness of this update I'm not happy with how long it took, personally, but I've got a life filled with school stuff, work and recently-ish a medical emergency that had me popping vicodin for approximately five days. Did anyone out there know that when a Par-Can hits the floor from about fifty feet or so that it bounces? I now know this intimately, or at least my collarbone and chest do. I don't want to promise faster updates with the summer coming along, especially since I churn out monster!chapters anyway, but I definitely hope to get more done with this now that I'm a tad less busy.

Thanks for sticking with me, guys. Now, on with the show.

* * *

Whatever Dave's expectations for the night had been, they had most certainly _not_ involved Kurt Hummel. Yet, somehow, there Dave was sitting across from him in one of the pink and brown booths at Estelle's, staring into his espresso while Kurt gave the same rapt attention to his café au lait, an unfortunately familiar (and very unenviable) silence smothering them. The night, as a whole, was quickly climbing the ladder on the "most-embarrassing-quandaries-David-Karofsky-has-ever-been-in" list. It was more cringe-worthy than the time that Jude and Kyle had watched porn with him when he still had his V-card (they had stopped the disc periodically to give pointers) but still _less_ so than the time Mason Pruitt had revealed his love of golden showers. Worst second date, _ever_.

Dave did his best to stay far, far, _far_ away from that particular memory, comforting himself with the fact that the restraining order was still in place and taking a sip of his drink. The warm, bitter-rich liquid sloshed across his tongue, offering a temporary respite to the current situation. He glanced very quickly at Kurt who was pretending _not_ to be doing the exact same thing over his cup. At once Dave found something interesting to look at through the window while Kurt's head swiveled in the direction of the crullers. Dave managed to will his blush down (just barely) though his companion, with that fair complexion giving practically every nerve away, went about as pink as the vinyl they were sitting on.

There were probably a thousand things that Dave could be saying to Kurt right then, and at least one he _should _be. He had thought about for years_, _practiced speeches and written letters that he'd never dared to send. Now that he had the chance, though, his tongue was frozen behind unyielding lips, too terrified to move. It was really kind of pathetic and sad.

That same thought seemed to be occurring to Kurt as he shifted uneasily in his seat and broke the silence. "So...um...great coffee," Kurt said it like he recognized the weak attempt that it was. "This place is nice. Very..._bright_." Those green-blue eyes traveled about the room which had been painted with buttery pastels.

"I uh—yeah, it is," Dave agreed, somehow feeling even more awkward than he had before.

Kurt, obviously believing that talking about Estelle's décor was getting them somewhere—or at the very least was better than _another_ ten minutes of uncomfortable silence—rambled on. "It makes me think of cupcakes..._which is probably what they're going for_." Kurt winced, the red tinge playing back up in his cheeks. "Wow, I um...I think I may get a cupcake," he started to stand, digging in his back pocket for his wallet. "Would you—"

"I'm sorry." Dave said it so quickly and softly that he didn't really believe that it had left his mouth. By the way that Kurt stopped the search for his wallet and met Dave's gaze again, though, he was _pretty_ sure that he had.

Dave's stomach rolled and then clenched, sending a hot wave of shame, disgust, sorrow, and anger up his gullet, the force of which was almost unbearable, and not just because of the alcohol he'd consumed earlier in the evening. He wasn't sure that he could do this, make this gesture, because had never felt that he deserved it. It's why his speeches never went past his own ears and why those letters were never put into a mailbox. He had been a royal fucking asshole to the person across from him, he'd been a _monster_. After all the shit Dave had done, the slushies, the locker checks, the threats, the torment, _that fucking kiss that Dave hadn't been able to wash off for __**years**_, how in the hell could he ever manage to sum up just how sorry he was?

The whole thing had been an ever-present weight, a leaden ball mashed between his stomach and ribs carried for ten years. It hurt and he'd held on to it because of that, because it ached and burned and because he _deserved_ that. Dave _deserved_to have that guilt crushing his insides because he had been such a coward. In a way too, it was like he didn't know what to do without it, he'd carried it so long, and any relief that finally owning up to his wrongs would bring wasn't something that he had a right to.

If there was a trick to it, though, his lips had somehow figured it out because they were moving, frantic to let go of the words forming upon them.

"I'm _so_ sorry, Kurt," Dave said. "I—for everything. I don't—I don't even know where to start."

Kurt, wide-eyed again, slid back down in his seat, the desire for a cupcake apparently forgotten. Dave swallowed hard and looked away; he might not be able to continue if he kept looking at the other man. There was already a hard lump forming in his throat and if he started to cry Dave might just have to punch himself in face. He locked his fingers together and cleared his throat before he went on.

"There's not an excuse for it, _none_. No matter how goddamn miserable, or sick or lonely I was I had _no _right to be such a fucking dick to you. _Especially_ after you didn't give me away when you'd finally had enough." Dave paused and swallowed again, there was a definite burn at the corners of his eyes now but he blinked it back furiously; crying like a bitch was _not_ an option right now. "So for, whatever it's worth, I am so, so, _so_ sorry, Kurt."

Dave kept his eyes down and held his breath for the eternity between his apology and when Kurt finally spoke. The other man's eyes were on him, that much he knew, Dave could _feel_ Kurt's big green-blue eyes. Traveling across his face, down his arms, studying the fingers he kept so tightly clenched together, and over every inch in sight, what he was looking for Dave couldn't say.

Honestly, Dave didn't know what he was expecting either or if, really, he was expecting _anything_ at all. Coffee in his face, a punch in the nose, a tirade of how sorry Dave _should_ have been, or maybe just the silence of Kurt storming out, refusing to further acknowledge his existence. Dave wouldn't have—_couldn't have_—argued with any of those; they were all far less brutal than what he deserved. What Kurt actually did, though, was far less expected than any of that and struck him just as hard.

"I—I—okay. Thank you, I'm—I'm _really_ glad you're not dead." And the way that he said "really", with actual relief, made Dave believe it.

Dave tore his eyes away from the swirling brown-pink designs on the table between them and looked at Kurt in utter disbelief. The other man's face was drawn, tired looking, but _relieved_. It could not be that easy, forgiveness for all of the awful things that he had done. His conscience screamed that it was too easy; at the very least he merited a lecture on being a horrible, horrible person and a slap in the face. He was about to tell Kurt that too, _demand_ that he be angrier at Dave, to hold that grudge he'd kept so well against himself, but Kurt spoke again and Dave's tongue froze.

"I didn't notice you'd disappeared right away, you know?" Kurt's slim fingers, which, for whatever reason, Dave suddenly observed were painted with very shiny black lacquer, tapped along the sides of his mug nervously. "I was just happy to be back with my friends and I felt safe with the new zero tolerance policy McKinley'd adopted at my back." He gave a short bitter laugh, and rolled his eyes. "Which, looking back on it _dumb_, so dumb. But anyway, it didn't hit me you had left until, like, the middle of May, when my brother was talking about replacing you on the team that fall."

Despite the sudden, almost undeniable urge to ask just why in the world _that_ would matter, Dave managed to keep quiet. He had had his chance to speak and Kurt had listened, his apology meant nothing if he could not give the other man the same courtesy.

Oblivious to the storm of emotions brewing just across the table from him (probably because Dave had become oh-so good at forcing a blank face) Kurt licked his lips and continued.

"The first thing that I thought was that maybe you'd transferred to an out of town school; maybe your parents didn't think that you could handle the new zero-tolerance thing and they did damage control. But then Quinn said your house was empty and, fuck, I know irrational that it is but I just could _not_ stop thinking all of these horrible things may have happened to you."

It took a moment to register but Dave was floored when it finally hit him just why Kurt's nose was a little red and his eyes were shining. Dave stopped gripping his espresso and pulled his arms back to himself, not so much crossing them as wrapping them around himself, trying to staunch the new ache in his middle. It took every ounce of willpower that he had to keep himself still.

"I kept thinking that your parents had found out you were gay or confused or whatever and they had shipped you off to one of those goddamn camps," Kurt's voice thick as he spoke now. He wiped at his eyes with the sleeve of his tee. "That maybe they'd uprooted everything because they were ashamed. Or worse I thought you'd hurt yourself. That maybe you were in some hospital somewhere getting your wrists stitched back up or pills pumped out of your stomach because you just couldn't take it anymore. Or—or..."

Kurt may not have been able to voice his last dread but Dave knew what it was just the same. He was both sorry and ashamed to remember the days when he _had_ actually been very close to _that_ and the other things Kurt had mentioned. There had been a slip up his senior year of high school where he'd gotten hold of a bottle of Nembutal. Dave had held it in his hands for _hours_, thinking about how easy all of the online articles had said it would be; that it would be just like falling asleep. No more pain, no more worry, no more shame, just the soft black of an endless nighttime. His father's knock on the bedroom door may have been all that had stopped him. He'd flushed the pills later on in his fear of being discovered. It wasn't until he was safe at Ithaca, with Jude and Kyle at his side, that Dave could say he was really okay. There had been more than just a few dark moments when he had sincerely wished that the Nembutal was still around.

"If—if I—that _wouldn't _have been your fault," he said, desperate to reassure Kurt. Dave ignored the waver in his voice and the how the burn in his eyes had intensified to obscure his vision. "You're not—you were _never _responsible for me, especially after what I did."

"_I know that_," Kurt almost snapped. He met Dave's eyes again and there was something almost fierce in the aqua-blue depths this time. It frightened Dave just a little and ensured that he didn't look away. Kurt let out a ragged breath and Dave followed suit, not knowing just how long he'd been holding that in.

"I know I was never responsible for you, I really do," Kurt said. "And you're right, you were a goddamn _bastard_. But I _never _wanted you to be dead any more than I think that _you _really wanted to kill me."

Dave winced, recalling that conversation like a stab wound straight to the gut. "Oh my god, I am so—"

"I know, I know." Kurt held up his hands. "You apologized, already, remember? You don't have to do it again."

"Yeah, well I'm pretty sure that _no _amount of '_I'm sorry_'s makes up for _that_," Dave really couldn't help from scoffing.

"Excuse me, but _you _don't get to decide that," Kurt really did snap that time. Dave winced but didn't dare look away, not with that almost scary glint going on in Kurt's eyes. "Don't belittle my forgiveness by saying your apology didn't matter."

All the color drained from Dave's face and he _felt _it go. "I—I didn't mean to—I just—_fuck_!" He put his head in his hands in frustration, noting as his palms brushed his cheeks that the latter were wet. "Jesus, I can't even apologize to you without being an ass."

"I'm not Jesus, but thanks."

There was a very precarious moment after those words left Kurt's mouth; a heavy glass bubble that threatened to roll, crush, and shatter _everything_. Dave was caught, lump in his throat, stiff, a little bit scared, and very, very, unsure, on one side. On the other Kurt looked like he couldn't really believe he'd just made a joke, the apples of his cheeks burning a true red. Anything could have happened when that bubble finally collapsed in on itself; Dave _still_ half-expected Kurt to break his nose or himself to start running again.

Instead they both laughed.

It wasn't the hearty, riotous, blood warming kind that made your sides ache, not in the least, but it was still very rich for what it _did_ carry. Relief. The tension, the palpable, tongue-searing, dripping tension between Dave and Kurt _broke_ with that odd bubble when they pierced it. Softly, chuckling at best, a guffaw and a smirk at worst, that slight noise still erected a cautious awning between them. Dave believed Kurt's acceptance of his apology (though it would never erase all of his guilt) and Kurt appeared appeased, if not outright content. It was the strangest thing but, somehow, it still might have been the most wonderful thing that Dave had felt in a long, long, _long_ time.

"So what _did_ happen to you?" Kurt asked, his tone downright pleasant, and Dave didn't have much trouble returning the easy smile he wore. "I mean, I _can_ ask that, right? Because Noah was only half-kidding about those mafia rumors. There _were_ a few people who whispered your family had been taken away by the secret service or whoever takes care of that deep-cover crap."

Dave laughed. "Uh…_no_. I mean that's a lot cooler than what _really_ happened but no. My mom's firm just gave her a promotion after they merged with this bigger one. The company opened up like six new branches and they assigned her to head the one up in Albany, New York. I found out the day we moved."

Kurt's jaw dropped. "No way! How in the hell could they _do_ that to you?"

"They _thought_ I'd object apparently," Dave said with a shrug. "Honestly, though? It was a relief to get away from Lima and start over."

Incredulity still lit Kurt's eyes. "But what about your friends?" he demanded. "You were one of the most popular kids at McKinley! I'm pretty sure the football team started a collection to get you a plaque or something!"

The mirthless laugh that trickled past Dave's lips surprised them both. Irritation flickered in Kurt's eyes and Dave immediately held up his hands in pacification. "Sorry, didn't mean to be rude but, well…I didn't really _have_ friends, Kurt." At the other man's disbelieving glare Dave sighed.

"I _didn't_," he insisted. "I had guys I hung around with, practiced with, played Xbox live with and partied with, but I'd _never_ call them friends. No one at McKinley knew the real me." The bitterness in his last sentence surprised Dave, just a little. He had always been aware that his McKinley "_friends_" had been about as close to him as the stray cats that frequented his old street. No, scratch that, the strays were closer, _they_ at least were honest in the fact that their affection was solely based on the leftovers Dave occasionally put out for them.

There was a heaviness in the air again with Dave's declaration, and for a moment, he was again afraid that he'd said the worst possible thing. Kurt looked at him sadly, pityingly almost, and it made his stomach turn. Pity wasn't something Dave really deserved, at least not from his companion, and he didn't want it either. But then Kurt nodded, somehow knowing that pushing would be cruel, as if he truly understood.

"I told my dad about—about the kiss," Kurt said, taking Dave by surprise. "I had a little bit of an episode the fall of senior year after Jacob Ben Israel—the prying reporter kid?" Kurt supplied at the slightly confused face Dave made at the name.

"Oh, yeah…I, um, never knew his name," Dave said guiltily.

"Don't feel too bad about that," Kurt told him with a disdainful wrinkle of his nose. "He was an _asshole_." A positively hateful look passed over Kurt's face as he continued. "The little jerk printed in the school paper that you and your parents' bodies were in the foundation of the new Denny's on Keppel Street. I saw it and pretty much just flipped out on him."

"_What_?"

"Yeah…not my finest moment, I suppose." Kurt didn't _seem_ particularly proud of himself, but there wasn't much shame in the lines of his face either. "It almost got me an expulsion. I was a total sobbing wreck when Ms. Pillsbury pulled me off of him, though, _and_ the story violated a few rules—_and maybe a law too_—so Figgins and our parents made a deal. We both did two months of early morning detention and apologized instead. Didn't keep Dad and Carole from demanding just what had gotten into me, though." A half-smile played at the right corner of Kurt's mouth. "My dad was _pissed_."

"I don't blame him," Dave said automatically. Memories of Burt Hummel's death glare _still_ could make him shiver. In fact that's what he did at just that moment. "I was a monster to his kid. Sorta surprised he didn't get a shotgun and come hunt me down after you told him."

"No, no, no!" Kurt exclaimed, almost knocking his coffee over as he waved his hands. "He was pissed I didn't _tell_ him. Apparently you being in Narnia watered the death threat down. _Like_ _a lot_."

Dave just stared when Kurt said that. Even more than expecting _Kurt_ to hate him forever he certainly expected Kurt's father to. Loving parents, he'd learned from Ophélie and Herbert, held grudges when it came to their own. For example, Eddie's cheating ex-wife had a credit score that was practically at zero thanks to their connections and ire. The most merciful thing that Dave ever though Burt might do for _him_ was not kill him if they ever met again. Sympathy, however miniscule it might be, from the man _blew his mind_.

Either Kurt didn't notice Dave's wide-eyed stare of shock or he was enjoying it, because he kept talking. By the way he still smiled, Dave would bet on the latter. "Dad made it pretty clear I should have told a counselor or someone who could have actually helped you, because there's, and I quote, '_a big freakin' difference between outing someone to the world and getting professional help for them_'." Kurt released his coffee for a moment to draw quotation marks in the air. "He was _especially_ annoyed when I told him about confronting you in the middle of campus. He actually made me call Blaine, put him on speakerphone and gave us both one hell of a lecture on why that was the dumbest idea on the planet. I think he even had Blaine crying a little." Kurt chuckled at the memory and shook his head. "And Dad was right, what we did was pretty stupid."

"You were _sixteen_," Dave pointed out, his urge to assuage whatever guilt Kurt was carrying over their stairwell confrontation startling him. Particularly since _he_ had always had the same sentiments about the whole thing that Burt apparently did. "I mean, fuck, how were you supposed to know how to handle that?"

"Hmm…Less listening to fellow, overly-optimistic, know-it-all sixteen-year-olds, would have helped, I imagine."

Dave snorted. "Yeah, that _might_ have done it." He took another sip of espresso and leaned back in his seat. The tense muscles in his shoulders were finally starting to relax for the first time since Tiff had greeted him with that drink Kurt had sent, and, by the slight throbbing between the shoulder blades, said muscles were pretty grateful.

"So, how _is_ your dad?" Dave asked after a few, unexpectedly comfortable, moments of quiet. "If the whole slamming me against a wall thing was any sort of indication, he cares about you a lot."

There was a look that flitted across Kurt's face, where something, some light in it, just sputtered _out_ and shut down. Those pretty, fine-boned features cracked then collapsed completely like clay that had been baked too long. A mask of sorts had slipped, barely for even a full second before Kurt caught it and shoved it back into place but Dave had still seen it.

"He passed away just after my freshman year of college." That spark was still out in Kurt's eyes, but for the most part, he'd managed to salvage his composure. When he spoke his voice was a flat, emotionless monotone that dug at the pit of Dave's stomach; it felt like Kurt was reciting from a script. "He, my stepmom and about twelve other people, actually. They were driving to Milwaukee and semi rolled."

The words were ice water to Dave's insides and a tiny, evil voice in the back of his head commended him on his stellar ability to pick the _perfect _subject. It had to be some sort of goddamned, unholy talent, to be able to bring misery to someone without even trying. Not for the first time that evening Dave felt like the world's biggest jerk and contemplated running out the door. He firmly ignored that need to hide, if only to avoid garnering more asinine jerk points.

"I'm—fuck, I'm sorry," Dave finally managed to say when his voice was cooperating again.

"It's okay." The forced nonchalance in Kurt's voice made Dave nauseous. "You didn't know; no harm."

"Hell there isn't." Dave was stunned, just a little, by the fierceness in his tone. By the way that Kurt's head jerked a little, not a recoil so much as a start, as he looked at Dave, the barest flicker coming back into his gaze, the other man was too. In spite of his track record with this subject thus far, Dave scrubbed a hand over his face, and continued with his thoughts.

"Don't tell me there's no harm when I can _see_ what I said upset you. I'm not belittling your forgiveness so don't insult my intelligence, Kurt. _Or_ my apology. Okay?"

There was a very unwieldy second or two where Dave once again half expected Kurt to draw his fist back and leave him with a black eye or a split lip. A thin chuckle from Kurt, however, quickly dispelled the souring air between them and the smile that Dave was given, after a long drink of café au lait, seemed real enough. Personally, he was just glad that Kurt's pupils no longer resembled vacant corridors.

"Touché. I'm sorry."

"It's cool. You've probably got another million abrasive freebies to go before we're even, might as well use 'em."

Kurt gave another, warmer, laugh, leaning forward on the tabletop, resting his weight on his elbows. "You make an excellent point. Though, wouldn't those freebies negate my acceptance of your apology?"

"No, no, no." Dave shook his head but grinned. "See, I was raised Catholic, so I learned: apologize, forgive but keep a tight hold on that guilt because hating yourself is what's best."

"That sounds _terribly_ unhealthy….and much less fun than flagellation."

Pure, witty repartee instinct, honed from years upon years of banter with Kyle and Jude, had Dave's left eyebrow arching and his silkiest voice employed as he said, "You're assuming I don't practice both."

Dave was slightly mortified that he'd decided to make a raunchy joke so soon, but _only_ slightly. It helped that, while Kurt's cheeks did turn a little pink he was laughing as well. _Real_, honest to goodness, easy, amiable laughter and Dave joined in.

"Okay," Kurt said when they'd stopped snickering. "So, you moved to Albany and finished high school there. What then? How did you get to New Haven?"

"_That_ is a long story, and I think I'm going to insist on a trade off," Dave said.

"You mean you show me yours and I show you mine?" Kurt asked taking his turn with the saucy retorts. It wasn't a bad try, not in the least, the way his pink mouth twisted so provocatively, though Dave pretty sure that _he _did the eyebrow thing much better. He didn't point that out, of course, just returned the smile and nodded.

"Yep. You sure you've got the time for it?"

"Will Noah be safe with your friends?"

"With _Kyle_, you mean?"

"Yes, _mostly_ her. The other one didn't have the berserker gleam in his eye. Admittedly, though, I've been wrong before."

"Hmm…I don't think I can lie to you and say that Kyle's never knocked a guy's teeth out for trying to brush up against the girls."

Kurt considered for a moment, gnawing on his lower lip and eyes flicking idly from left to right as he did. Finally, though, he shrugged and grinned at Dave. "Oh well, I'm sure he can build an elaborate machine like Rick Allen if the damage is permanent. If not we'll move him to the tambourine." He slid out of the booth, digging his wallet out from the back pocket of his jeans. Dave, for a second or two, given the tightness of said jeans, suspected Kurt of practicing some kind of witchcraft because he could not believe _anything_ would fit in those pockets. "So, we're agreed, story time. But first I _seriously_ want a cupcake. These fricking walls are taunting me with their frosting stare. You want?"

"Just pass on the cupcakes, dude; s'not the house specialty. Now the pączki? _Those_ are the shit." Dave waved to the rows of small, round and glazed pastries resting on the second shelf of the glass bakery counter. "They make 'em with strawberries, blueberries _and_ Bavarian cream. Fresh."

"Wow the innuendo to be had there is—_wow_. I can't even touch that. Too easy."

"Oh, _I_ totally can; warm, cream-filled balls. In your mouth." Dave channeled Kyle flawlessly and gave his very best shit-eating grin. Kurt managed to stand against that for approximately two seconds before caving to helpless giggles.

"Egh…_that is awful_…" Though he may have been shaking his head, Dave was fairly sure by Kurt's smile no unforgivable lines had been crossed. "Okay pączki and what else? Get over here and show me. This trade off thing looks lengthy so that calls for a fuckton of sugar."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

As he sat eating pastries and exchanging stories with Karofsky—_no,_ _Dave_—in the wee hours of the morning it occurred (briefly) to Kurt that he should maybe have been weirded out by the situation. He couldn't say that it wasn't surreal on some level but honestly? He was enjoying himself.

Dave's evolution, both the story and to see it, fascinated him. There was no trace of the scared, angry, messed up kid that Kurt had known; they were two different people who just happened to share the same bones and intense eyes. The man before him exuded an easygoing confidence that was downright charming, especially when Dave's natural shyness peeked out (which happened more often than the other man probably ever realized). Plus Dave was funny; really, really, _really _funny. All of his stories were told with a wit and exuberance that kept Kurt giggling with nearly every sentence.

More than anything, though, Kurt liked how easy it was to talk to Dave. Maybe it was because that they had both already seen each other at their worst, despite it feeling so distant and, well, _teenage_, now, but he actually felt at ease with the other man. He couldn't have said for sure that they'd be best friends or anything, or even if they would speak again once they'd parted ways that night, but right then, in that pink and brown booth, Kurt Hummel was good with Dave Karofsky.

"—and _then_ Kyle jumped on the bar and kicked him in the face. Needless to say, we have _not_ been invited back to Blizzard Con. And honestly? Got _no _fucks to give 'bout that." Dave finished up his story and shoved an entire pączki into his mouth, swallowing the thing in just a few quick chews. Kurt tried _very_ hard not to linger on how much Dave could fit into his mouth as he laughed.

"Your best friend is _insane_," Kurt said. "She and Santana can _never_ meet, it would open a black hole of bitchdom and the universe would collapse in on itself."

"_Pft_. That is so _not_ the craziest shit I have seen Kyle do," Dave informed him. "Once she warms up to you, get her to tell you about the Pride Parade in Manhattan back in 2015. Now _that_ was crazy. Nail-studded-Louisville-slugger crazy, in fact one of those is involved and by some miracle homicide was not."

Kurt laughed but he had become a little stuck on the "Once she warms up to you" part of what Dave had said. It may have been silly but he _really_ did like the sound of that, of getting to talk to the other man again, perhaps even often, during his stay in New Haven. He wasn't so sure about the "warming up" thing, though; Kyle was an imposing lady and it was a little bit hard to forget that death glare of hers.

"She knew about me, didn't she?" Kurt didn't consciously meant to ask that question but he didn't regret it once he did. "Her and your other friend…_Jude_?" He nibbled on his lower lip, trying to recall if that was indeed what Kyle had called him before dragging him away. "You'd told them about, well, _everything_ at McKinley? I mean, they both _looked_ like they knew a lot or at least had heard about me once since they seemed to recognize my name."

Dave nodded. "Yeah. They both know the whole mess about as well as I do. The _truth_ too," Dave added on quickly. "I never bullshitted them on what an asshole I'd been and they never pretended I couldn't have done it. We work really well together like that. They've…they've gotten me through a lot. _We've_ gotten each other through a lot."

The soft, fond smile that graced Dave's face told Kurt more than words ever could; its warmth could make plants grow. That smile silently proclaimed that Dave knew he was loved, that he had shelter and support and every other necessary thing that his teenage self didn't to feel safe. Besides that it reassured Kurt even more than Dave's jokes and stories that he truly was all right. Kurt was glad for that.

"So, what about you?" Dave asked when he finally returned from that safe little space in his head. "What are _you_ doing in New Haven? And with Puckerman no less. I knew you two did show choir together but I never thought you were all that close. Though, he _did_ tell me off on your behalf once…_right_ before Z, Strando, and the guys locked him in a port-a-potty…" He grimaced. "Wow, I think I might need to apologize to him too…"

"Meh, he got over it," Kurt told him. "That's how he met the so-far love of his life."

"Oh yeah, _Zizes_! They still together?"

"Ugh _no_. Not that Noah ever thought of breaking it off but he got accepted to OSU and she got a wrestling scholarship somewhere in Texas. Lauren didn't think either of them could do the long distance thing so she broke it off." Kurt wrinkled his nose as he remembered the resulting mess that _that_ had turned his best friend into. Noah had actually thought about forfeiting his nearly free-thanks-to-financial-aid year to follow her down there. Luckily, Kurt, Finn, Rachel, and Santana had intervened and though it took tying Noah to his bed for a few days (along with several hard slaps) he eventually saw the stupidity of that decision. He had still lamented the loss of his girl for _months_, during which time Kurt had been subjected to a near constant barrage of incredibly awful love songs that Noah had penned in Lauren's honor. Being a good best friend he had smiled sympathetically and patted Noah on the back for each and every fucking one; Kurt was pretty sure that, gay atheist or not, sitting through "Inside Her Warmth" without vomiting qualified him for sainthood.

Kurt sipped his coffee, reminding himself, not for the first time, that looking Lauren up _just_ to torment her with those terrible, terrible songs was a waste of his time. "_He_…didn't take it well."

Dave raised an eyebrow, like he sensed everything Kurt wasn't saying, but wisely did not push it. Instead he commiserated with an almost cheerful, "Yeah, well breakups fucking suck," and ate another pączki. Kurt mimicked his actions though _he_ could only stuff about half of the pastry into his mouth.

As they ate Kurt noted that something in Dave's eyes had shifted. The color was a gloomy mud-brown inflamed with threads of bottle green. Strange as it was, with ten years between the last time they'd seen each other and perhaps never having even _liked_ one another, Kurt recognized that gleam. It was amazing how "Recent-Shit-Relationship" translated the same on just about every face.

Before he even realized his mouth was moving, Kurt had asked, "Still stinging, huh?"

"Huh?"

Wishing he hadn't said that Kurt wanted even less to look flaky so he proceeded on with his thoughts. "The look you're wearing," he gestured a little inarticulately at Dave, "it's the 'bad relationship' face. I have too many friends who've been wearing it _way_ too much over the last, I don't know, _decade_. Or maybe I'm wrong and that's just a face you make. _Not that it's bad I just…_" Kurt sighed at his companion's persistently blank stare. "Shut me up any time here."

At _that_ Dave laughed. "Sorry I—let's just say you're right. Awful relationship face is indeed awful relationship face."

"Recent?"

"Eh…not _really_," Dave said, mouth scrunching to the left in thought. "I mean we ended back in November…on my _birthday…_" That last part seemed to have slipped out, with the vehement way it said. Kurt winced in sympathy.

"_Ouch_," he said. "_Really_? Tell me that you at least got a severance pop."

"Nope. The little fucker didn't even bother to do it in person. I got a text message at my party."

"Wow, that's fucking _awful_. How long were you two together?"

"Fourteen months," Dave said, no small amount of ire saturating his tone.

Kurt could literally not stop his jaw from dropping. "No. _No fucking way_."

"_Yes_ fucking way." Dave nodded almost solemnly over his coffee.

"Jesus Christ." Kurt whistled. "I sincerely hope you pulled a Kelly made sure that he'd never get laid again."

"A _what_?"

"A Kelly, you know 'You Can't Text Message Breakup'?" The other man continued to gaze at him as if he was speaking in Greek and Kurt sighed dramatically. "Just YouTube it later, all right? It'll make you laugh and _hopefully_ give you a good attack plan for the asshole."

"No thank you," Dave said holding up his hands. "Seriously, I just want to forget Nathan ever existed. I wasted enough of my time on him. I didn't even _like_ him." The self-loathing that colored Dave's face as he looked out the window made Kurt's chest hurt a little and it took all of his willpower to keep himself from launching across the table to hug the other man.

Dave wasn't paying enough attention to Kurt to catch on to the wide, sad eyes he was watching him with. "What _really_ got me, when it was all said and done, was that _he_ dumped me. The loser I was just wasting my time with, that I was hatefucking to try and be less of the stereotypical lonely writer I was so scared of becoming? _He was too good for me_. And considering I let myself do that for over year? I can't disagree with him."

An echo of the frightened seventeen-year-old Dave had once been flashed before Kurt's eyes. The downward, uncomfortable focus of Dave's eyes accompanied by his hunched posture and unhappy curve of his mouth were disturbingly familiar to Kurt. He had thought about him often enough over the years, wondering (fearing) what had become of the other man that, had he any artistic inclinations, he could have put the scared boy's likeness on canvas.

Words began to form on the back of Kurt's tongue, something—anything—that would bring back the confident person he'd been talking with. Before he really had to struggle with words, though, Dave had covered up that fragile shard of himself with a blithe smile and a question.

"Okay so you and Noah and New Haven…?" he asked, wrapping his big hands around his espresso cup. Dave's eyes were back to bright and inquisitive, focused completely on Kurt as they had been.

The circumvention took Kurt aback; part of him wanted to backtrack and reassure Dave that his ex was just a twat. Another didn't think that he had the right to discuss something like that. Kurt went with the latter part, pretending that the slip up had not occurred with an ease that, should he have taken time to think about it, would have been unsettling.

"Right," Kurt said lacing his fingers together with palms flat on the table. "Um…well, basically I came back from Dalton and he and I just started spending more time together. At first I think it was because he just wanted to keep tabs on me in case…well, you _know_," he shrugged and Dave nodded guiltily. "But then, somehow I was giving him date tips for Lauren. Then we were studying together a lot because _he's_ deceptively good at chemistry and _I_ was his only hope of pulling up his Lit grades. When the school year ended he just kept coming over. He made me learn how to play Black Ops, I shoved a few cooking lessons down his throat, we both tortured Finn by tag teaming him on multi-player."

Kurt smiled at the memories of that _then_ seemingly uneventful summer; it was still the best one of his life, even with the two cases of food poisoning he caught from Noah's interactions with the oven. To be fair though, he'd gotten Noah back during the punching lessons he and Finn insisted on giving; Kurt had never been such a combination of proud and _horrified_ as when he caught his best friend in the eye. Noah had brushed off his apologies, saying he was the best grasshopper he'd ever trained, and proudly told everyone who asked that it was Kurt Hummel who'd given him the shiner.

Across the table Dave was smiling in that way Kurt was quickly starting to label as his "secretive" smile. His head tucked down just a bit as the corners of his lips curled up, particularly at the right, while his eyes remained steady on Kurt's face while he spoke. Kurt was _really_ starting to like those eyes, they were rich, dark, and bright all at once and the color mesmerized him, how it shifted between evergreen tinted amber and peridot flecked chocolate.

It took every ounce of Kurt's willpower to stave off a blush when he realized he was thinking so intently on Dave's eyes. He distracted himself with yet another pastry and a long drink of his now rather cold café au lait. Thankfully, Dave didn't appear to spot that.

"So, anyways," he said once his pączki was swallowed, "Noah and I just sort of fell in together. I didn't even realize how close we were until we both got accepted to OSU. He mentioned sharing a dorm one day and I said yes without even really thinking about it. It hit me like five minutes later that even if any of my lady friends were going to the same school and it was co-ed optional, Noah was _still_ the one I wanted to share my space with. Hell, I would have rather had Noah even over my brother and _not_ just because Finn is about as tidy as a chimpanzee on crack."

"Eh! I _know_!" Dave exclaimed with a laugh. "Jesus, I shared locker rooms with him for almost six years and his locker _always_ looked like there could be fungus growing in there somewhere."

Kurt giggled. "There probably _was_. I'm pretty sure the only thing that saves us from all new sorts of bacterial infections on the road is Santana's threat to hose him with pepper spray if he doesn't keep his shit in his hamper."

"On the road?" That left eyebrow, which Kurt was quickly dubbing Dave's "signature", went up. "Did Hudson marry Lopez?"

Really, Kurt couldn't help the cackle that escaped him when Dave asked that. None of them, his brother and Santana included, could barely believe the two had slept together the once anymore, so the suggestion of a relationship between them could hardly strike him as anything _but_ hysterical. And frightening, quite frightening, to be honest, but Kurt pushed down his combination of hilarity and revulsion to explain things to Dave, lest Kurt's giggling scare him away.

"_God_, no. Finn married Rachel Berry and Santana's as into dick as Noah is—which _despite_ his…" There was absolutely _no_ way that Kurt could refrain from blushing as he recalled every selling point that had fallen from Noah's mouth earlier in the evening. "…_comfort level_ with homosexuality, is actually not at all."

Dave's jaw dropped. "_Really_? Dude, she slept with just about every guy in school and a couple of the faculty."

Kurt smirked a little as he shrugged. "_She_ fucked herself into a stupor, _you_ acted like jerk and _I_ was a royal bitch, honey. Gay teenagers have all the same kind of shitty coping mechanisms that the straight ones do."

That had Dave chuckling again and he held up his second espresso cup. "Here, here," he said. Kurt caught on quickly enough and tapped his own cup against it.

"Finn, Noah, myself and our friends Padma and Jules are in a band," Kurt explained once the café au lait once again resided on a grainy pink-brown circle near his right elbow. "Santana's our touring manager; hence she gets to use her H.B.I.C. skills to keep order by any means necessary."

Those already bright hazel eyes lit up even more as Dave leaned farther in over the tabletop. "_You're_ in a band?" he asked borderline incredulously. Dave seemed to recognize that in his tone as well, and before Kurt could really think of being offended he backtracked and apologized. "Wow—ugh, sorry, I did _not_ mean to sound like a complete douche. It's just—rock star isn't a career I ever would have pictured you with. Then again, I really didn't _know_ you so maybe I'm just…_putting my foot farther down my throat_…" His face started to redden the more he spoke and Kurt had to bite down an 'Aw'.

Instead he said, "No, you're right. I mean, I _know_ I was and still am pretty much the definition of flaming gay. And while I don't think I'm really a 'rock star', I certainly never expected to be doing this."

Propping his chin on his fist as he too leaned on the table Kurt sucked on his lower lip, remembering all the steps that had taken him to where he was. A lot of them, surprisingly, weren't even real decisions when he took time to examine them, just convenient motions for the time being. He'd always known he was rather lucky, that the band as a whole was _very_ lucky, but somehow until he sat back and thought about it, the fact rarely hit Kurt.

"Growing up I wanted to be the male version of Liz Taylor," he told Dave. "By the time I was in high school all I wanted was to get the hell out of Lima. I considered just about anything—singing, dancing, decorating, design school, translating French, whatever would get me out into the world. The only reason that I stayed in Ohio for college were the home state tuition rates. Well_ and_ OSU had a pretty great music department. That's where I met Jules AKA my partner in melodic madness." He had to laugh at the last bit, remembering how Jules had coined the term while standing, drunkenly on an overturned coffee table before leaping onto his back. It was a move that knocked him down and bruised his ribs. For a girl barely bigger than Rachel, Jules was _freakishly_ strong.

"And creative magic sparked from the get go?" Dave asked, now smiling impishly.

"_Hardly_. We sort of hated each other for awhile." A slight grin tugged at the corners of Kurt's mouth as he recalled the white-hot rage that boiled up in his throat every time that Jules spoke the first few months they were in each other's acquaintance. She had struck him as so _smug_, so arrogant, with her beautiful low voice and ability to play more instruments than Kurt owned scarves. Most of all he'd detested how at ease little miss Juliet Hamilton had been, so very relaxed and poised as their music theory professor complimented her. If she had at least been obnoxious with her genius, like Rachel, he could have at least had grudging respect for her, but the quiet detachedness of Jules had really rubbed him the wrong way. And for whatever reason she'd had, by the way her gray-green eyes coldly washed over him each period they shared, Kurt had known the loathing was mutual.

Dave was back to raising that eyebrow of his and Kurt answered the question it posed without prompting.

"We were paired up for a project in music cognition during the second half of the fall semester. We made it like two days before we got into the fight that had to come. I don't even remember what it was about, let alone how everything really went down, but I'm pretty sure there was slapping on both sides and _maybe_ some kicking. Then, somehow we ended up at Dairy Queen talking about why Judy Garland was our idol."

"Alan Moore," Dave said.

Kurt blinked a few times. "Um…_who_?"

Shaking his head just a little, Dave smiled. "Sorry, that just reminded me of how Kyle and I really started bonding."

"You mean you two didn't just meet and _BAM_ wonder twin powers were activated?"

"As _awesome_ as that sounds, and as much as I want to now alter the story so that yes, that's totally how it happened, no." Dave's tongue poked out at the left corner, wetting his lips while his eyes rolled to the ceiling in thought. The motion fascinated Kurt in an embarrassing sort of way.

"We weren't _cold_ to one another or anything and it _didn't_ take a fist fight to get us to talk, but the first couple of weeks we shared our room were a little…awkward," Dave told him. "I was struggling with wanting to come out since I was away from home but I didn't know _how_. So I pretended I was an armadillo and tried to interact with everyone as little as possible. Including Kyle. Then one day I came back from class and she had 'V for Vendetta' on the TV."

"Ooh, Noah and Jules both own a copy of that, I haven't seen it though."

Dave shook his head, making a "tsk tsk" noise. "You _need_ to," he told Kurt. "_Everyone_ needs to; more than that they need to read the comics. In my opinion it's the greatest piece of modern literature yet written. It's what finally got me out of the closet, really." That plant-growing smile returned to Dave's face as he looked down into his coffee. "But there was this—this really _moving_ scene playing when I came in. It was all about how, no matter what the world tries to take from you, you have to hold onto your integrity, you have to be true to yourself. I stood there, in the doorway of our dorm room and just watched that whole scene. When it ended I just—I sort of broke down. I cried like a gigantic baby, told Kyle I was gay and she held on to me like the world was ending then made sure I knew it wasn't. So yeah," Dave chuckled, a little bit of a wet sheen to his eyes as he raised them back to Kurt's, "Alan Moore. He's Kyle and I's Judy Garland, I guess."

"Sorry." Again, Dave shook his head and scrubbed a quick hand across his eyes and forehead. Kurt played along, pretending that there had never been any moisture in the corners of Dave's eyes. "_You're_ supposed to be telling me about _your_ life. I'll shut up now."

"Don't you ever apologize for that story," Kurt told him, his voice a little hard. "_Ever_."

There was an awkward second or two, as Dave blushed a little and then Kurt blushed and they both looked _anywhere_ but at each other.

Dave cleared his throat and drummed his fingers against the side of his cup. "So, you and Jules?"

"Oh. Yeah, we _were_ talking about that, huh?" Kurt joked.

"It had come up, yes," Dave returned pleasantly.

"Well," he began, stretching a little as he adjusted in his seat. Kurt angled himself so that he could lean against the windowsill and stretch his legs out over his bench. In a fashion, Dave had copied him, pulling one leg up on the seat so that he could rest his chin on it while the other lightly butted the table leg. "About a week after we bonded Jules was asking to record me singing stuff she'd composed for one of our independent art projects. We did that and had a lot of fun. Not long after she met Noah and my brother. When she found out Finn could drum and Noah was a fellow guitarist she asked if they'd like to jam once in awhile. Padma, our bassist, we knew from music history and invited her the second she said she still practiced.

"Dorothy North—the band," he supplied at Dave's slight quizzical frown, "wasn't supposed to be anything more than stress relief between our classes. Jules mentioned a few times freshman year that she thought we could make something on the road. Finn and I wouldn't have been able to explain it to our parents, though, so until August just before what _would_ have been our sophomore year it stayed a hobby."

"What hap—" Kurt was almost certain Dave had bitten down on his tongue to stop that question. It was unnecessary of him but sweet, Kurt had to admit. He demonstrated that with a weak but still sincere smile.

"It's okay," he told the other man. "_Really_."

Instead of arguing this time Dave nodded, swallowing back what was probably an apology he didn't want to be berated for. Again, Kurt marveled at the difference ten years had made on the person in front of him. For all the clichéd songs about her, Time really was the best treatment for all your wounds.

Kurt took another drink of his café au lait then licked his lips before starting again. "But, yeah. We lost Dad and Carole so we decided to try Jules' proposal. Noah and Padma pissed off their parents a little bit when they dropped out but other than that little bit of friction I don't think any of us regretted leaving school. Finn and I sold everything in Lima, got Rachel's blessing and bought our equipment. We traveled and booked ourselves for about four years, recorded like five EPs then Rachel got one of them to an acquaintance she'd made on Broadway. He liked what he heard and we got signed on at Geffen. We made a studio album that caught a lot of indie-underground press attention and were rewarded with a better contract and a tour bus. Santana had graduated with her business management bachelor's earlier in that same year and was seeing Jules anyway, so we hired her on as our road manager. She's kept us running efficiently ever since."

He had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing after that last sentence passed his lips. _Keeping them running_ was a pale description of what Santana's job _actually_ entailed. She made sure they all ate, that they slept, got them to the doctor's office when they were sick and on top of that took care of the business-y crap that came with keeping a band on schedule, too. In reality, Santana was a single mother of five ungrateful fucking kids, one of whom happened to be her spouse, which therefore made Jules the brattiest of the bunch. Santana was _sanity_ for all of them most of the time, unbelievable as it still was.

"She's your Annabeth, then?" Dave asked, pulling Kurt out of a memory where Santana had collected a bucket of ice water to throw on Jules' sleepy form right before a photo shoot. The resulting fight and makeup sex, he was sure had been heard from out of state.

"Annabeth?"

"Mine and Kyle's agent/handler/cunt-faced-shark." The bigger man smirked, looking upward as he obviously searched for the right words. "She hates everything with a passion but she gets the job done come hell or waters high. Which, luckily for Kyle and I is _usually_ to our benefit."

"_Usually_?" Kurt imitated Dave's cat eyebrow as best he could.

Dave shrugged. "The woman's a sadist and comic conventions can be _hell_. Let's leave it at that."

"Fair enough," Kurt chuckled. "Back to '_Underground Sensation: The Dorothy North Story'_—_Shut up_—" he ordered playfully at Dave's snort. The other man feigned a look of absolute innocence and Kurt barely refrained from tossing a pączki at Dave's head. Instead, he turned his nose up and carried on.

"So, abridged version of the last few years. About two years ago we made our second studio album; that got a lot of very nice critical reception so we basically spent up unto a month ago traveling around, promoting it and the band. At the very end of December our label said we had one of the satellite studios in New Haven at our disposal for as long as we needed. We all packed up our shit and shipped out. Well, Noah and _I_ shipped out," Kurt smiled ruefully. "Finn, Padma, and Jules all took vacations with their significant others; left us singles to unpack everything." Grinning now as he wound his tale down, Kurt spread his arms wide. "And _then_ my best friend convinced me to celebrate bachelordom with a night out and I sent you a drink. Any questions?"

Dave's lips twisted ever so slightly as he put on his most thoughtful face. "_Just_ one. How upset would you be if I said I'd never heard of your band?"

Kurt almost spat out the lukewarm mouthful of coffee he'd just taken. He managed to swallow, somehow, as he laughed then grinned at Dave. "I won't be _too_ incensed, I promise. We're not Top 40's famous and I don't know that we ever will be. Now that you _do_ know, though," he playfully narrowed his eyes, "I _totally_ expect you to buy all of our albums and merch."

Dave snorted. "But what if I think you guys really suck?" he asked, teasingly, of course, by his smile and bright eyes.

He countered with wide eyes and a wobbling lower lip, "But—but you threatened to kill me when we were children…"

Dave's jaw dropped and for a split second Kurt thought that his joke was too much. Then Dave was chuckling and saying, "_Ah_…Low blow, dude, _low_!"

Shrugging, Kurt grabbed another pączki. "I'd say I'm sorry but, well, I need the royalties. Never can have enough designer boots, you know." And he lifted his leg high off the bench, trying to pose like a model to show off the current knee high leathers he was sporting. It didn't go as he'd planned as the bench's slick vinyl upholstery wasn't made for such quick movements and Kurt found himself sliding to the floor. He yelped, just barely catching himself on the table's edge.

"I _meant_ to do that!" Kurt practically shouted as Dave laughed without reserve while he struggled to get up. "Dammit! Stop laughing, I—_Whoa_!" His right leg, sleepy from sitting down so long, buckled and Kurt found his ass on the floor.


	6. A Clean Slate

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Reviews are _greatly_ appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** Thank you's go to my beta, aureliamonte, and to winterswallows for _her_ help, guidance and annoying way of being right. Winterswallows has written a follow up to her story "The Boy Who Lives on Heaven Hill" called "Good but Not Nice". It's a Davetana friendship piece and I really enjoyed it myself, so if you've got time, you should go read and review that.

* * *

After Kurt managed to get back into his seat, with a little bit of assistance from Dave, they continued talking for almost an hour more. Dave was pretty sure that the only reason they'd decided to call it quits was the rush of very drunk college age kids that stumbled in calling for everything deep fried and sugary. This, of course, announced that it was past two in the morning and the bars had all closed down.

"Holy shit…it's nearly a quarter after," Kurt said as he flicked his iPhone on. "We've been talking for over two hours."

"Well, time flies when you're having fun, or coming clean, or whatever the fuck that saying's _really_ about," Dave joked reaching for his own cell. He'd turned the BlackBerry off earlier in the evening, not wanting to be disturbed by Annabeth should she get a wild, workaholic hair up her ass. As the screen lit up and found five new messages waiting for him Dave became _very_ grateful he'd chosen to do that. Opening his inbox he saw that four were from Kyle and one was from Jude.

The first four, from Kyle, were rather touching. In a very…well, _Kyle_ sort of way.

**[From Porthos 11:52 P.M.] Good luck, I love you.**

**[From Porthos 11:57 P.M.] The twink didn't SEEM like he was going to go nuts on you, so I assume things will go well. If they don't and you come home crying, I can't promise that I won't attempt something a little bit physical-assaulty. I love you and I hope you're okay.**

**[From Porthos 12:03 A.M.] Please, please, PLEASE be ok. My burrito is not nearly as delicious as it should be when I worry about you. Do you hear that, fucker? I love you so much you can taint the taste of steak and guacamole!**

**[From Porthos 12:11 A.M.] Okay, since you're not texting me back or here crying, I'm going to be a grownup now and assume things with you and pretty boy aren't going terribly. I will stop texting you now. I love you.**

**Seriously, if you come back damaged goods, skinny better watch his ass because I will come at it with a fire poker and vinegar.**

**Please don't be mad at me for the threats if you, by chance, hooked up with him in a bathroom stall.**

**I love you.**

Jude's message, the final and most recent of the bunch, though, was the most worrisome.

**[From Aramis 1:22 A.M.] Hey, I hope that you check this before you leave Estelle's and go to Chipotle, otherwise you're gonna be pissed. Kyle and Noah decided to go bowling, I think they have a wager. We'll be at Blue Lanes, tell the twink.**

**I hope everything went okay. Love you.**

"Oh Jeebus…" he sighed turning the phone back off.

"What?" Kurt asked. "Are you okay?"

Dave shook his head. "_I'm_ peachy. Puckerman's probably bitten off _way_ more than he can chew though."

Kurt paled and bit his lower lip, blue-green eyes wide in apprehension. "Oh shit, your Amazon didn't kill my letch, did she?"

"No, but she's probably got his wallet by now—don't ask." He shook his head again and stood, pulling on his coat and gloves. "C'mon, they moved from eating burritos to bowling about a block away. If we hurry we might be able to salvage _some _of your boy's dignity."

Kurt made a face but didn't argue, just slid out of the booth and started to pull on his own winter-wear. Dave was a little amazed by that; the Kurt Hummel he'd gone to school with had never missed a chance at a sarcastic remark. He'd also never let anyone tell him what to do, no questions asked, no matter how polite (or violent, he could guiltily admit) the other person was while commanding. Then again, Dave had never known the _real_ Kurt, just glimpsed the person he projected during school hours. He also had to admit that ten years and all the changes in his life had probably altered Kurt more than a little too.

Dave didn't dwell on that, though, he was a little too preoccupied with whatever devious machinations were going through Kyle's head at the moment. He did, however, remember to hold the door open for Kurt as they left.

"Are you okay with walking a block?" Dave asked once they were out in the arctic chill of Connecticut's January. To his left Kurt seemed a meager adversary for the weather despite his coat, scarf, and gloves. Maybe it was just because Kurt seemed even smaller ten years later thanks mostly to the two extra inches Dave had grown and the muscle he'd packed on to accompany it. "We can get a cab, if you want."

Kurt waved the suggestion off. "I'm fine," he assured Dave. "Lead the way." He gestured dramatically, making Dave smile as he started off towards Blue Lanes, careful to keep his gate a little slow for his companion and trying not to be obvious about that. Dave was sure those long legs could outrun him but they did not have the route memorized into the muscle like _his_ did.

If Kurt thought Dave was being careful of him, though, he didn't let on, he was busy keeping the air pleasant with not-so-idle chatter.

"This isn't all that bad compared to the time we played all over Northern Europe," Kurt told him, voice muffled ever so slightly by the thick green-gray-blue scarf he tucked about his neck. "Late winter early spring is _so_ not the time to visit Finland, Norway, Sweden and Denmark. _Especially _Finland."

"In summer it's frickin' beautiful," Dave replied. "Kyle and I went a couple of years ago to speak at a con in Helsinki. We took a little bit of a vacation, came early, stayed few days late, ate a _lot_ of cloudberry jam. It was nice."

"Well, in the winter when _we_ went we had a moronic bus driver who couldn't read signs and put us onto an ice road. Did you know that a tour bus can drive on just the left-side wheels if everyone is perfectly balanced in the middle while screaming? It can."

"Fuck, for real?"

The look on Kurt's face could have peeled paint right off a building. "No. I still have night terrors of nearly going into a half-frozen, Finnish lake _just because_." They had paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the green light to come on and the force of that glare had Dave edging back just a little. Kurt noticed that and the fire and brimstone flickering at the back of his eyes dissipated, _much _to Dave's relief.

"Sorry, sorry," Kurt sighed rubbing his temples. "Let's just say that _that_ leg of touring was stressful."

"Sounds it." The green light came and they resumed their easy walk over the frosty asphalt. "On the upside, you're making me feel a _whole_ lot better about all the flying I have to do. It's nice to be reminded planes aren't the only deathtraps around, in a way."

"Ugh, I'm fine on planes, but _Noah_?" Kurt rolled his eyes. "We have sedate him with horse tranquilizers to get him in his seat ever since we flew through a lightning storm back in 2016. Which keeps getting harder and harder because he doesn't _want_ to be unconscious—like he _believes_ that he could actually _do_ something if the plane went down other than piss himself."

Though he sincerely did feel sorry for Puckerman (Paul and Michelle's fateful trip over Lake Ontario in a rickety little Cessna had made air travel difficult on him for quite some time after their passing) Dave couldn't stop himself from laughing. It was probably—no definitely—the mental image of Noah Puckerman with a big wet spot on his jeans and screaming like a little girl that did it.

"If we're drowsy, stressed or anything like that I actually have to keep Kyle awake until we've boarded," he told Kurt. "Once she's asleep there's pretty much _no_ getting her back up. She's like a five-year-old, throws a tantrum and everything."

"Cute." Dave didn't miss sarcasm.

"_Sometimes_. Occasionally the little bitch kicks."

"I mean this in the best possible way—since, aside from trying to strangle me with her eyes, your friend is a beautiful woman—_but there is_ _nothing_ _little about her_." Dave chuckled, mostly at the wild way Kurt was gesturing as he continued on. "I had no idea that girls came that tall! And, yes, I know how heterosexual this sounds but—_Jesus Christ! The rack on her_!" Kurt held his arms out in front of him, fingers laced together, clearly imitating Kyle's chest.

Dave had to stop walking at that point, his laughter choked off into wheezing. He held his ribs and gulped in air, looking up at Kurt with watery eyes as the other man giggled along with him. His ass might have met snowy pavement if there hadn't been a lamppost within clinging distance.

"What? They're quite large, that is all I am trying to say."

"N-not disagreeing. Not at-at _all_," Dave somehow managed to spit out as he tried to calm down. He felt like he was practically sweating beneath his coat from laughing so hard. "Almost _everyone_ is in awe of Kyle's tits when they meet her. Hell, our friend Vince just recently trained himself not to ogle them when she's speaking."

Kurt snorted. "Well, things with their own gravitational pull _do_ tend to catch a lot of attention."

"Well, that _would_ explain why my and Jude's heads end up resting there at least once a day." At the _very_ questioning look that earned from Kurt, he explained, "Hey, don't knock it until you've tried it. Boobs are awesome. Think of the most comfortable pillow you've had then multiply that by ten. _That's_ what it feels like when you lay your head on Kyle's chest. Warm, soft—occasionally vibrating when she's in a giggly mood—what's not to love about any of that?"

"The vagina all of that is attached to," Kurt deadpanned, though he was smirking as he said it.

Dave heaved a melodramatic sigh and rolled his eyes as they started walking again. "Well, if there were a penis attached it would ruin everything. I hang out with trannies and queens but I'm not into the full combo, _thank you_. To me, boobs are an asexual place for napping. Broaden your horizons a little."

"I'm just going to say that _you_ are not the first person to tell me I needed to do that," Kurt chuckled. He sidestepped a frozen puddle and his elbow brushed against Dave's. Dave tried very hard not to make too much of the fact that Kurt _remained_ quite close afterward, that elbow continuing to graze his own every few feet or so.

"My argument's the best, though, right?"

"You're advocating their use as headrests, not things that I should be trying to rub my penis between, so…_yeah_."

"Eww! That's a _terrible_ use of boobs."

"_I know_! How in the world does anal automatically go into the 'perv' category among straight people while tit fucking remains such a prized novelty? _Really_?"

"Um, depending on whom you talk to—like ninety percent of all women ever—those are both shit sexploits for guys to attempt if they want to keep their balls intact."

"Really?" Kurt asked his brows raised high. "You know, _Jules_ was the one who suggested tit fucking _to_ me if I ever got curious. _And_ she's into anal."

Really, Dave couldn't help the absolute disbelief that crossed over his face. He almost called Kurt a liar too, luckily, his brain was still on top of things and he shoved that away. Instead "Should I even ask how you know that about your married, _lesbian_ friend?" was what passed his lips.

Their elbows brushed again as Kurt scowled playfully up at him. "Oh, do not _even_ act like every sordid detail of Kyle and Jude's sex lives hasn't been catalogued up there." He reached out a leather-clad hand and gently tapped the side of Dave's head. Dave laughed, swatting lightly at the hand which Kurt had back in his coat pocket within the blink of an eye; there was no missing the smug curve of his mouth. "It's what's real friends do: divulge each atrocity of carnal interaction. Sometimes with vivid pantomime. Also? I live most of the damn year packed in pretty tight with five other people and sometimes earplugs just _aren't_ around when you need them." Kurt shuddered in a way that had absolutely nothing to do with the cold. "_I've heard things_. _Things no amount of porn could ever erase_."

Dave's "aww" was stuttered by laughter, even as he gave Kurt what was supposed to be an empathetic shoulder pat. It probably didn't come off as very sincere; in fact, Dave was sure by the way Kurt's nose wrinkled up at him that it had not. The smaller man nudged him with his shoulder, not very hard and certainly not enough to so much as even dent Dave's stride. Dave was going to return the favor but stopped himself right before contact was made; memories of pushing Kurt into hard metal were not at rest just yet. He made the mistake of catching Kurt's eye as he ducked his head down and those bright aqua irises widened just a bit; he understood. Mercifully, though, any following awkward apologies were averted by the flashing neon sign depicting several pins tumbling over; they were standing in front of Blue Lanes.

That pale face reddened—more so than what it already had from the cold—when Dave, out of habit really, held the door open for him yet again. Dave tried his best not to enjoy that or make anything of it as Kurt ducked inside. He could not, however, stop his eyes from shifting downward—_briefly_—to the back of Kurt's jeans when he passed him. Conveniently, Dave told himself it was to check for a wallet line—_which he did not see_—on the back pocket.

Besides the wonderful toasty heat of the indoors, several other things greeted Dave and Kurt as they made their way into the bowling alley. The first thing that Dave noted was that it was an irregularly slow night for a Saturday (well, _Sunday_ now technically) with the place all but empty. The second was that the walls had been repainted a brighter shade of blue since he'd last been there. The third was that the front desk clerk, a somewhat acquaintance named Bea, was perched on the counter, legs crossed and eagerly watching the lane directly in front of the desk. Where, not coincidently Dave was sure, Jude was sitting. And the fourth thing that registered to Dave was Puckerman, clothed in only his boxers, socks and garish bowling shoes—appearing unperturbed about it too—while he watched Kyle roll her ball down their lane. Aside from no longer wearing her coat, gloves, and exchanging her boots for bowling shoes, Kyle (thank goodness) was no more undressed than she had been when Dave had last set eyes on her.

"What the—" whatever Kurt was going to say was cut off by the loud crash of pins when Kyle's ball slammed the center of their formation. Each little white statue tumbled over helplessly.

"_Fuck_ _yeah_!" Kyle exclaimed pumping her fist in the air. She whirled around facing Puckerman and sneered; Kyle was fucking obnoxious as _hell_ when she played games and _extra_ loud. "How many is that now? Huh? Come on, tell me, Princess. _Lay. It. On. Me._ You afraid you're gonna break a nail? Have your husband give you an extra quarter for falsies and put some effort into it, June."

"You're cheating," Puckerman said, though he didn't seem very angry. In fact he was grinning at Kyle. "How in the _fuck_ can you get nothing but strikes for _three_ games? I wanna switch lanes. This one is _clearly_ catering to whatever handicap you've got goin' on."

Kyle snorted, flipped back her hair arrogantly-as-you-please and crossed her arms. "Ugh-huh, whatever, Camilla. Pick any lane you want, you're _still_ gonna be my bitch. Oh," she grinned wickedly, "and since I think I just won—_again_—you're moving on sans a little something. I'll let you pick between socks or panties."

Bea helpfully called out, "I don't think you should risk the socks in those shoes, honey! Fuck only knows who's had them on."

The fact that Puckerman actually seemed to be taking her suggestion into consideration looking between his boxers and Kyle was enough to snap Dave out of his stupor. Puckerman was easy enough on the eyes (not really Dave's type though) but the last thing Kurt probably wanted to see was his best friend doing a striptease. Or at least that was his guess by the look of sheer incredulity plastering Kurt's face.

"Porthos!" he shouted Kyle's nickname with an edge and put on his best no-nonsense face. All eyes shot towards he and Kurt, though only Jude had sense to look a little bit ashamed. Bea waved prettily while Noah and Kyle both grinned. He shook his head and continued as they walked over to their friends, Kurt yanking his coat off to throw at his best friend with the hiss of '_you're in public_!' as he did. "_Really_? Really, Kyle? Whatever you bet him, give it back."

"_Aww_," Kyle pouted crossing her arms as her plush mouth seeped into a pout. "Why ya gotta be a killjoy, Davey?"

"_Yeah_, Davey," Bea echoed, mirroring Kyle's face. The small, dark-haired, young woman didn't really have the lips to pull it off quite like his BFF did but the effort was still good. He shot her a glare as a reward.

"Isn't there a shirt, shoes, pants requirement _you're_ supposed to be upholding, lady?" he asked, emphasizing his point with a high flagged eyebrow.

To Bea's credit, that didn't faze her in the slightest. "I can make exceptions where I see fit," she sniffed quite primly. That, however, melted into a sly grin as she glanced at Noah, who was arguing with Kurt about the coat and trying to get him to take it back. "See that? That's fit." Her eyes lingered unabashedly on Noah's pecs. "_Totally_ fit."

Since Bea was in her early twenties and therefore had yet to grow a sense of shame, Dave stopped trying with her. His friends, though, were a different story.

"I'm a killjoy because you had to play dirty pool on someone I kinda owed," he told Kyle sternly. Dave's eyes flicked to Jude, who was trying and failing sort of hilariously, to look inconspicuous while his eyes darted around the room, on _anything_ that wasn't Dave. "And _you_," he pointed at Jude accusingly. "_You_ let her do it. _You're _supposed to be the responsible one. Why in the fuck didn't you stop this?"

Jude threw up his hands. "And what did you want _me_ to do?" he demanded. "In nine years what have I ever done to give you the impression that I can make _her_ listen?" This time it was Jude that threw the accusing finger at Kyle, who in turn nodded, agreeing with him. "Do you remember Pride Parade 2015? _I _do. I couldn't get her to drop the bat _then_ and I can't call her off _now_. The best _I_ can do is tagalong and _occasionally _do damage control."

"Which he _did_," Kyle defended. "He told me I couldn't just take all of Princess'," she gestured vaguely toward Noah, "clothes in one go. That was plenty of intervention, Athos."

This time it was Puckerman who spoke up to defend Dave's friends. "Karof—Dave," Puckerman paused when he said Dave's name, like it was his first time using it. To be fair it probably was. He carried on quickly enough, though. "Dude, it's cool. I know what I signed up for. We're all adults. The lady schooled me fair and square. Would you _stop_ that?" The last bit was directed solely at Kurt who was _still_ trying to force his coat onto Puckerman. The taller of the two band-mates pushed his friend lightly. "You've seen me naked like a dozen times before and I'm not cold. Calm down."

That withering glare Dave had had the misfortune of witnessing on their walk over returned to Kurt's face and then some as he elbowed Puckerman in the ribs. The guitarist yelped and Kurt did not appear at all bothered. "Noah, I could care less if you whipped your dick out, went outside and slapped it against a streetlight, that's your own business. However, I _do_ care if it all ends up on the forums and kids start asking questions during interviews. Now put your fucking clothes on. _Dumbass_."

"Aww, come on!" Puckerman exclaimed. "I do that and it's throwing in the towel."

Kurt put a hand to his forehead, as if to silently ask some higher power just _why_ he'd been saddled with this responsibility he called his friend. Dave knew the feeling _pretty_ well and empathized greatly. "Noah, I swear…"

"Dude, whatever she bet you, you didn't have a chance of winning it from the start," Dave threw in, hoping to save Kurt an aneurysm. He eyed Kyle and she smiled saccharinely in return even batting her eyelashes. Absolutely no shame.

"I'm going to go out on a limb here and guess that _no one_," he frowned at directly at Jude who slumped a little in his seat, "mentioned that she's won a few bowling championships." Puckerman's suddenly slack jaw answered for him. "Nope, didn't think so. Go ahead and put on your pants guilt free."

Though Kurt, rather forcibly, grabbed his friend's clothes and put them in his arms, Puckerman remained stationary, staring between Kyle and Jude. "You tricked me," he finally said. Dave couldn't tell if he was just surprised or angry at the two of them, though, for a moment, he was pretty sure there would be yelling. That dissipated with Puckerman's grin, though. "Damn, beautiful _and _cunning. I'm _so_ in to that." His impressed smile shifted to lewd as he struck a pose and ran a hand down his abdomen, a very come-hither gleam to his eye. "Baby, if you wanted to see the goods you _could_ have just asked."

Dave caught Kurt's eye and was glad to see that he wasn't alone in thinking Puckerman was just a little bit retarded. He almost chuckled at the way Kurt sighed and crossed his arms, silently stressing just how used to this behavior he was and how _very_ sad he was for that fact. Dave offered a comforting smile, remembering all the times he'd had to pry Kyle off some poor jerk who'd given her the wrong look; it was sort of nice to know that every group of best friends came with an equal amount of agony.

Kyle in the meantime, did her best to deflate Puckerman's ego like a balloon. "Please, _they_ were in it to see the goods," she gestured to Jude and Bea. The former flashed a sheepish smile and the latter ignored them as she'd conveniently gone back behind the counter to do something or another. "_I_ was hoping for a challenge. Or to pulverize someone, maybe make 'em cry."

"Do I still get to motorboat those if I squirt a few tears?" Puckerman asked staring blatantly at Kyle's chest in a way that almost all other men feared to do.

"Not a chance," Kyle told him, almost sweetly, as she grabbed a Coke off the lane-table that Dave assumed was hers. "Now put your clothes back on. And if I have to tell you not to call me 'baby' one more time, I'll toss _you_ down the lane. I'm twenty-fucking-seven-years-old and I ain't wearing any diapers."

"Yeah, yeah." Dave was almost impressed by the nonchalance in Puckerman's voice. The other man slid back into his jeans and had his belt buckled so quickly it was almost startling; Puckerman had obviously perfected the dress-and-run. As his T-shirt was going over his head he asked, "So, you wanna try teams for round four?"

"Sure," Kyle said setting her drink back down; it was an automatic response and Dave could muse over it later. Guilt shaded his best friend's eyes, though, as they flicked over to Dave and Kurt, suddenly remembering why she was hanging out with the smarmiest human being alive. "Uh, well, that is if you two are cool?"

"Oh yeah," Puckerman agreed, _finally_ seeming a little bit embarrassed as he too looked them over. "Are you guys…?" Dave was pretty sure the question was left hanging because Puckerman really had no idea _what_ there was for him to ask at all. Not that Dave could really blame him.

He looked at Kurt and found the shorter man already had eyes locked on him, mirroring the guarded, questioning look that Dave himself wore. Things _felt_ okay, Dave, for one, felt lighter since their conversation in Estelle's but sitting there and standing here were two different things. There was a part of Dave that didn't think that he and Kurt could ever really be friends, not with all that baggage they'd carried between them. That same part didn't think that he even deserved friendship; despite their heartfelt exchange a tiny bit of Dave might always believe he didn't even deserve forgiveness.

The strange knot that was winding up in Dave's stomach unraveled in a gush when Kurt shrugged, started to unwind his scarf, and said, "Sure." It was that easy.

Kyle, being Kyle, caught Dave's eye, the lines of her pretty face drawn; she had been worried, he knew. For all of her messing with Puckerman she had been worried, very worried, and she was worried even then. Jude, Dave knew, had also been apprehensive for him but not like her, no one in the world cared quite like Kyle did. The look she wore said all of that as her eyes dragged along every dip, crevice, and pore on his face, searching for proof that he _was_ indeed all right. He smiled at her, a weak, slightly tired half-twist of his lips and just about every muscle in Kyle sagged with otherwise silent relief. She smiled back, placated—for now—and gave a short nod.

"So are you playing with your gay or are you gonna borrow mine?" Kyle asked Puckerman, putting her game face back on and smirking at Kurt's best friend.

"Depends, how good is yours?" Puckerman countered giving Dave a downright business-like onceover.

"He's adequate," Kyle said with a shrug. "Not as good as me, of course—"

"Of course," Puckerman echoed haughtily. Kyle stuck her tongue out but otherwise ignored his interjection.

"_But_ he's not bad. Certainly better than someone who refuses to put his fingers in the goddamn holes." She eyed Jude with disdain.

Dave's other best friend flipped her off. "Hey, I have frail hands!"

"_And_ less hand-eye-coordination than a drunken pigeon."

"Yeah, that too."

Puckerman laughed. "Okay, I'll take him. C'mon dude," he waved Dave toward him. "Help me regain a little of my dignity."

Kurt snorted. "_That_ is a lost cause."

"You shut up and go with your _new_ breeder, Bright-Eyes," Puckerman said, adding a light push to the small of Kurt's back. It got him a swat and a very nasty look.

"Hey, I _never_ said I would play," he growled. "Can't I just…I don't know, keep score, or something?"

"Umm…_no_," Jude answered, a little bit snappishly too, which surprised Dave. He waved his hand over the console. "I called dibs on that gig _hours_ ago."

"That's true," Puckerman agreed; his attempt at diplomacy might have been more believable had he not been smirking so. "Sorry, Bright-Eyes, you gotta play."

Kurt scowled. "Dammit, Noah, I don't even know _how_ to play!"

"Wait, what?" Kyle exclaimed looking at Puckerman. Kurt's best friend grinned back fiendishly while her jaw dropped. Her surprise faded into glare whose fearsomeness was cut with an appreciative smirk. "Oh, you _bitch_. Fine, I deserve that." She sighed, a little dramatically, and stood back up. "Challenge accepted, motherfucker, but I'm getting in a couple practice rounds with your boy first."

"Go ahead," Puckerman said as he dropped down into the nearest seat. He leaned back, propping his feet up on the table, arrogance incarnate as he waved Kyle on like a king. "Luck with that, unless he's dancing Kurt has _no_ coordination."

"Oh that is _it_!" Kurt hissed. He jerked his gloves and scarf off, throwing them onto the bench on top of his coat, a manic gleam in his eye. Said eyes turned on Kyle who met them squarely. "Okay, teach me how to roll the damn ball. I want his foot so far down his throat that it comes out of his ass."

"Ooh, we're gonna get along nicely," Kyle said. There was a sharkish gleam in her eyes as she looked Kurt up and down that Dave was immediately wary of.

"Of course we are," Kurt replied, as if he'd known it all along. His lips twisted evilly after a quick glance at Puckerman. "Because I am going tell _you_ a really great story involving an obnoxious guitarist and some watermelons that you'll just love."

Puckerman's face turned the same color as his garish maroon shoes and all of his swagger evaporated. "_Kurt_!"

Neither his best friend _nor_ Kyle were paying Puckerman any attention though. "Nice. _Very_ nice. Come on, New Friend, let's go pick out your ball and shoes." She looped an arm easily through Kurt's, as if they'd known each other for years and Dave _definitely_ knew something was up. "I like your boots, by the way."

"Shit, we _are_ going to get along," Kurt chuckled.

"_Kurt, I'm serious, not the watermelon story_!" Puckerman called after them. It was a futile plea as both Dave's best friend and his own ignored him. Dave would have felt sorry for the guy if he wasn't so sure that Puckerman was secretly enjoying himself. They had been just close enough in high school for Dave to know that Noah Puckerman relished being talked down to by a pair of nice tits.

He kept a close eye on Kyle, though she seemed on her best behavior Dave had a few sneaking suspicions on why she wasn't giving Kurt the cold shoulder after her earlier death glares. Dave had the sneaking suspicion she was practicing the old "friends close, enemies closer" tactic, just in case Kurt should try and hurt him for whatever reason Kyle had made up in her head. Kyle was a wonderful friend and Dave loved her to pieces but sometimes the woman was paranoid as fuck. He'd have to have a talk with her later about being less crazy, especially towards someone he really wanted to keep peace with. For the time being, though, Dave distracted himself by stealing Jude's Coke, which came with a playful argument about backwash and why it shouldn't matter since Jude had had Dave's cock in his mouth before.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Kurt really did have no coordination unless he was dancing, though, since the dancing Dave had yet to see he (there were a few vague recollections) was just taking Puckerman's—_Noah's_—word on it. He still wasn't as bad as Jude was (no one on the planet could be as bad as Jude was at bowling) and that _still_ didn't offset Kyle's constant strikes. It had gotten a little close, but in the end Kyle's perfect game coupled with Kurt's poor performance had beat Dave and Noah's combined average scores by about ten points. Given Kyle's competitive streak Dave wasn't even slightly surprised with the outcome.

Luckily, though, after gloating for about five straight minutes, she'd become a little more bearable. Enough so that another game was sidetracked by pleasant conversation between the five of them. Well, more like the _four_ of them since Jude was oddly subdued but Dave chalked that up to tiredness. At least that was the vibe he was giving off, snuggled up against Kyle's left side, head resting on her chest, eyelids drawn down most of the time. It was a position that Dave could tell Noah greatly envied, if the little tick in his jaw every time his eyes washed over Dave's two best friends was anything to go by. The self control it took Dave to stop himself from taunting Noah with the number of times he'd seen Kyle topless (which, given their informality after nine years of sharing a living space had been a fair amount) was _really_ admirable as far as he was concerned. He _did_ sort of owe the guy, anyway.

Besides that, he was sort of content with the comfortable air as and current discussion topic: the watermelon story.

"And _then_ we couldn't find him for _hours_!" Kurt said waving his arms wildly, eyes bright with laughter. "Finally, Santana caved and called security. They brought him back to the main hotel part of the place, in his underwear and covered in this pink, fruity goop. They said that they had found him in the garden of the plantation, specifically the watermelon patch, breaking them open with fucking rocks and shouting for someone to give him back his goddamned money." He paused, trying to calm himself down as Kyle and Dave laughed uproariously.

For his part, Noah didn't look so amused, but he wasn't as red faced or angry as he had when Kyle had insisted on hearing the story a few minutes earlier. "Oh come on!" he attempted to defend himself. "It was LSD! Don't even try and tell me that _anybody_ here hasn't done something fucked up while under the influence." He glared at Kurt. "And you know what? I would've rather been going nuts in a watermelon patch than fetal on the bed sobbing about clowns!"

"Yeah, well, _my_ bad trip didn't get us banned in Mississippi for two years, that's all I'm going to say," Kurt told him.

"_Clowns_?" Kyle asked the question that Dave was thinking himself.

Kurt shrugged and took a drink of his diet Dr. Pepper. "I don't like clowns. Though, the whole thing was a valuable lesson though: Kurt Hummel should only ever imbibe alcohol. And even _that's _got to be in small amounts. I had nightmares for _weeks_."

"During which time he _insisted_ on sharing my bed," Noah added with an eye roll.

"_You_ convinced me to take the bad acid, pal, it's only fair that you dealt with the cleanup afterward," Kurt sniffed. "And _don't_ even act like you were bothered, Mister-Secret-Snuggler."

Much to Dave's surprise Kurt's last jibe didn't embarrass _or_ anger Noah. On the contrary, he shrugged saying, "Yeah, well, you're not as bony as you look. Well, _most_ of you." _That_ made Kurt blush and a very wicked smile bloomed on Noah's lips.

"_Shut up_!" Kurt hissed glancing around as if searching for something to throw right at his best friend's head. "You've poked me with morning wood _more_ than once, fucker!"

"_I_ didn't moan when I did it, though," Noah continued to tease. "Or call you 'babe' and grind my hips into your ass when you tried to wake me up."

There was a moment or two where Dave actually thought Kurt's head might just explode (though that couldn't stop him from laughing) from all the blood rushing to it. Those bright, blue-green eyes gleamed a little murderous on his snickering best friend and Kurt was looking at his soda can as if debating on whether or not it would improvise as deadly weapon. Luckily for Noah, Kyle jumped in to play the embarrassing stories game, keeping Kurt from finding out just what sort of blunt force trauma that a half-full can of diet Dr. Pepper could do to the human skull.

"Oh please. Waking up with Cutie on your back—" It appeared Kyle had given Kurt a nickname. Dave could only hope that he liked it because he knew his BFF would _not_ change it no matter how much he complained. In fact that would probably just help it to stick. "—is _nothing_ compared to that," she pointed to Dave, "and this," Jude got his head lightly pushed; he didn't even bother to look up at her, "on your front. Dave puts a stranglehold on you so you can't even _think_ of a bathroom run. Then pretty much all of Jude is bony and his elbows love my ribs."

"S'not our fault you're comfy," Jude proved he was still awake by murmuring. "Get a breast reduction and turn into a skeleton, we might stop using you as the middle to the snuggle-sandwich then."

"_Maybe_," Dave said. "I doubt it though. And _stop_ acting like you don't love it."

Kyle was on the verge of a snarky remark when Bea popped in, arms folded and a half smile curling at the right side of her mouth. Kurt and Noah jumped at her apparent ninja skills; Dave couldn't blame them, he, Kyle, and Jude had taken a few years themselves to get used to Bea's eerie stealth.

"Cute as all of these little stories are, guys, I'm still going to have to kick you out," she told them. "It's, like, almost four and I have a paper to finish tomorrow."

At once everyone dove for their phones, flicking them on to verify if it was indeed that late. Sure enough the clock in the right hand corner of Dave's BlackBerry read 3:52 A.M.

"Fuck," Kyle whistled. "We've been at this _that_ long? For real?"

"Apparently," Kurt said.

"Yes, yes you have been giggling like a group of schoolgirls for over an hour," Bea said, sounding rather annoyed. "Thank you for trusting me to know what time it was."

"Um, sorry, have you met you?" Dave was only half teasing. Bea raised an eyebrow at him but didn't say anything in return. Her mouth twisted a little and she made a face but eventually she shrugged then nodded, as if to say "yeah, you got me" before going back to the counter. Dave shook his head and turned attention to replacing his neon orange bowling shoes with his sneakers.

"Ooh, you have nice boots too," Kurt told Kyle. Kyle had dislodged Jude from her side forcing him to stand (or rather slump heavily against the back of the bench) while she pulled on her knee-high, gray something-something's.

Dave had long ago learned that being gay did _not_ mean you had a strong handle on all forms of culture and, quite frankly, he was all right with knowing almost nothing about fashion. He had Kyle to pick out clothes for him when he needed to look impress anyone, the rest of the time Dave was happy with whatever was close by, clean and comfortable—_and_ that preferably did not have the Spiderman logo on it. Spiderman, as far as Dave was concerned, was a bitch.

Kyle smiled at Kurt, one of those very genuine smiles she so rarely granted a person who had _not_ known her for half a decade. Or at least close to it because that light of I'm-watching-you was still flickering occasionally in the dark blue depths of her eyes. Dave was _really_ going to have to talk to her, preferably before she whispered something in Kurt's ear like "If you make my best friend cry your life will turn into a Dali landscape".

"Thank you," Kyle said. "We've got a great outlet store in West Haven so I got 'em for under twenty."

"What's it called and where can I find it?" Kurt demanded as he finished lacing up his left boot. "I haven't gone on a decent shopping trip since…_forever_. A wardrobe overhaul is needed stat."

Kyle put her hand out to Kurt and said, "Gimme, your phone." Kurt hesitated for a second or two, staring at Kyle's outstretched hand, but he gave it over after unlocking it. Dave thought about taking it from her, in case she something awful was on her mind, but then he remembered Kyle's technological strengths didn't go past using Google, typing, or using her graphics tablet. So Dave went ahead and assumed that she was pulling up Google Maps on the web app or something of the like, as their company pulled on hats, gloves, and coats.

"Do you want me to call a cab for you guys while I'm getting one for us and Jude?" Dave asked Noah as they returned the balls and shoes to Bea at the counter.

"Dude, _please_," he said, pulling his jacket tighter around him, as if to ward off the chill he hadn't even stepped into yet. "I may have grown up in Ohio but I _still_ don't dig the winter."

"Ah, this isn't that bad," Dave said as he pulled his phone back out. "I mean, shit, no snow emergencies yet this year." He grinned at Noah's shiver and stricken face. "So where are you staying at?"

"Pine Apartments it's—"

"Off, Bellestone, yeah." Dave gestured toward Jude who was, rather sloppily, helping Kyle with her coat as one of her hands was still working with Kurt's cell. "Jude lives there; his place is on the fifth floor."

Noah's eyes widened in surprise. "Really? Dude, so's ours. We're 502 and the girls are 503."

"Jude's got the corner at 513, a little bit down the hall but it still counts as a 'neighbor', I guess."

"Awesome. I have someone to borrow sugar from, now."

"He keeps the spare key lodged in a little space between the doorframe and the wall on the left side. You should go in when he's not there some time and rearrange his furniture. Be careful of his cats, though. Helter and Skelter live up to their oh-so-clichéd names."

"Your best friend has attack pussies?"

"More like grab-your-legs and jump-on-your-shoulder-from-out-of-nowhere pussies; they're attention whores and everyone who's ever gone into Jude's apartment has been tripped by them. The only one they steer clear of is Kyle—she punted Skelter across the room when he did that to her."

"Clearly they're bowing to the dominance of the _bigger_ attack pussy," Noah chuckled with a lewd grin.

"Clearly," Dave agreed. "Hey, Jude—"

"_Don't make it bad_!" Kyle sang; Dave rolled his eyes at her while Jude smacked her lightly on the back.

"Yeah, Athos?" Dave's other best friend answered him, sleep-glazed eyes locked on Kyle in a glare, warning her to cut the tacky humor; Jude was a grumpy guy when he was drowsy. Kyle stuck her tongue out before her attention went back to Kurt's phone and whatever the hell she was doing to it. Dave suspected she was programming every goddamned store she liked in town into the address book or something.

"You care about sharing a cab back to the Pines?" He gestured to Noah and then to Kurt, the latter looking up curiously from over Kyle's shoulder at the mention of his apartment building. "Guess these guys are your new neighbors."

"Really?" Kurt smiled at Jude, eyes bright. "What number are you?"

"513," Jude said. "It's on the corner farthest from the elevator." Kurt started to say something else but Jude still very much in his I-want-my-bed-right-goddamned-now state cut him off with a scowl and a wave of his hand. "No. We will not have breakfast tomorrow. I'm not the welcome wagon and there will be no fuckin' muffin basket. If you try and visit before two in the afternoon I'll throw an angry cat in your face." Kurt jumped a little from the manic light in Jude's eyes then edged slowly toward Noah, as if he thought Jude might charge.

"Jude," Dave chastised as he dialed the cab company, "play nice." Jude responded with his middle finger while he buried his face in the warmth of Kyle's shoulder.

"Don't mind him," Kyle told Kurt. She smacked Jude lightly on the back of the head, he didn't move an inch. "Baby's just up past his bedtime. Besides, his cats are retarded, not angry, if he tossed either of them at you they'd just cry then beg you to love them like the pathetic little losers they are. Fuckin' ankle biters." The last bit came out as an unhappy rumble, complete with bitch face. Jude chuckled into the fabric of Kyle's coat and got another slap. As before it didn't convince him to abandon his position, in fact he wrapped his arms around Kyle's waist, clinging to her like some oversized, sleepy hug-tick.

Bea was nice enough to allow them to linger inside by the doors as they waited for the cabs after Dave had called them. Jude's sleepiness seemed to be catching as the five of them stood, watching the street while the vents poured warm air over them. Kurt had forced himself under Noah's arm as the taller man leaned against the wall. His eyes were closed as he rested against his best friend's side. Dave, glancing over with heavy eyes himself, thought that they looked kind of adorable from his spot on the left side of the door. Especially when Noah started rubbing absentminded circles on Kurt's back. The only one who appeared to be really away was Kyle still busy with Kurt's phone—which worried Dave a little more with each passing second. The sound of her tapping the phone's surface was all the noise to be heard through the slowly darkening room as Bea shut the lights in each lane off.

The cabs arrived in less than five minutes, as Dave knew they would. New Haven's system wasn't quite as efficient as New York's but at this hour on a Sunday there wasn't so much competition or traffic to hold things up. Calling their goodbyes to Bea, Dave and company braced themselves before plunging into the cold night beyond Blue Lanes' heavy, plate-glass doors.

"Here." Kyle handed Kurt's phone back to him when they were standing on the sidewalk in front of the cabs. Kurt fumbled to take it, the smooth plastic sliding a little in his suede gloves. He managed not to drop it, though (with a little help from Noah), and looked over the screen to see what she had done. "My cell, Dave's, Jude's and our landline are in there. And I may have called my phone so that I can save your number to it later." She grinned at Kurt's dumbfounded expression and winked at him. "Call me sometime tomorrow night and we'll set up a time to hang out this week. I'll show you around, we'll shoe shop, Dave can carry our bags; you know all that fun shit."

"_Dave_ objects," he said scowling at Kyle, though not so much from worrying about her intentions with Kurt. "Woman, the _last_ thing you need is more shoes. You wear, like, _five_ pairs and the rest just take up space." It was the truth, even _if_ Dave was biased toward shopping. His BFF only wore a few pairs, mostly converses and flats while the other thousand or so sat around. There were at _least_ thirty pairs sitting unworn in their boxes and stored away in the furthest recesses of the attic, all neatly labeled and arranged by style and color.

Kyle stuck her tongue out as she attempted to dislodge Jude from her back. He took the hint and slid off, wrapping both of his arms around one of Dave's instead. "Fuck off. Are you my father? No, no you are _not_ my father. And even if you were you wouldn't get to tell me what I should and should not buy with my own damn money since I'm over the age of eighteen."

"You're a shoe-hoarder," he deadpanned. "You have a problem. A problem called shoes."

"You have a problem called your mouth!" she retorted. "Now, shut it; you're going, bag-boy." And she turned back to Kurt, tossing her hair as she did, ending the discussion. Dave rolled his eyes but knew that she was right; Kyle had had him wrapped around her pinky since they were nineteen. Besides, he _did_ want to see Kurt again—even if Kyle's shoe obsession was involved. At the very least he could make sure she behaved herself.

"Thanks," Kurt said, looking a little dumbstruck as Kyle hugged him. That faded, though, after a moment and he squeezed back. "I will. Promise."

"Better, I know where you live," Kyle joked as they parted. Kurt's giggle was somewhat interrupted by his best friend as Noah elbowed him (gently, Dave noticed) out of the way and opened his arms to Kyle. Dave's best friend snorted, crossed her arms and rolled her eyes at him, her expression _very_ close to Kurt's as he shook his head at the other man.

"_What_?" Noah couldn't quite achieve innocence in his tone or face for the smile he wore. "Come on, I thought we were doing new-friend hugs here. Aren't _we_ new friends?"

"Sure we are," Kyle said pleasantly. For half a second it seemed like Noah might actually get some contact but Dave knew better from the devious twinkle in Kyle's eyes. Noah leaned in and she spun on her heel, moving out of reach and causing him to stumble. Grinning Kyle walked toward the second cab, pecking Jude on the cheek as she passed and opened the rear passenger door. "Losers don't get hugs, friends or no. Win at something then we'll talk." She stuck her tongue out before slipping into the taxi.

Dave tried to be polite and not laugh too loudly at the way Noah's jaw dropped but he gave up on that when Kurt didn't bother. It didn't appear that Noah minded, though, once he could move his jaw again he was smiling. "Challenge, accepted—_Baby_!" He tacked the last word on with a triumphant smirk and Dave could _feel _Kyle glowering behind the window.

"I'll see you guys later," Dave said, shaking his head at Noah and his masochistic behavior; Kyle was going to make the guitarist pay, he just knew it. He said nothing, though, Noah was old enough to know when he was waving his balls in front of pit viper, and focused on getting Jude into the other taxi. He jiggled his arm and gave the other man a push. "'Mon, Judy, leggo. You have to get in the car to get to your bed."

"Yeah, sure." Jude's words were slurred with tiredness and quickly followed by a yawn that seemed too big for his skinny body. The arms coiled so tightly around Dave's bicep relented just enough for Jude to wind them around his neck. He hugged tightly, much more so than usual to the point of almost-pain, and kissed the corner of Dave's mouth. Jude's way of saying _he_ had been on edge for a while that night too. Dave returned the kiss and the embrace, though, he was much more careful given how thin Jude was compared to him.

"Love ya, Athos," Jude said as he let go, and stumbled into the cab, the door of which Noah was graciously holding open.

"Love you too, Aramis."

There was a semi-awkward moment after Jude had crawled into the cab where Dave met Kurt's eyes and the shorter man moved as if to hug him as well but stopped himself. Dave brushed off the disappointment he was sure he had no right to feel; he and Kurt had _just_ started to see each other as human beings rather than jaded memories, hugs were probably too much right then. The gaucheness in the air, however, was cut by Noah (or perhaps amplified, at least for a second or two) as he pushed past Kurt and threw his arms around Dave.

"Glad Ben Israel was wrong, dude," he said, thumping Dave on the back as he let go.

"Thanks." Dave returned the gesture along with a half-smile.

"Anytime. Catch you later." And with a wave Noah had joined Jude in the cab, leaving he and Kurt in a new wave of awkward not-staring-at-each-other on the sidewalk.

This didn't last long though, maybe five seconds, before Kurt mumbled something that sounded an awful lot like "fuck it" and moved in for a hug. It was brief, uneasy and both of them were rigid as fuck but when Kurt's arms fit around his waist Dave could not deny that he felt better, great even. It was as if all those words in Estelle's had been said all over again and somehow become even stronger.

When Kurt pulled back he wore a half-smile, face tinged with pink but his eyes were steady and met Dave's with little reservation. "I'll see you later?" It came out almost like he wanted permission and fuck if Dave could ever tell him no.

"Count on it," he assured Kurt, grinning down at him.

"I will." A final smile, a full one this time, and Kurt followed Noah. His eye contact with Dave remained unbroken until the door was shut and even then Dave could still feel that bright, blue-green gaze tacked onto him. As Jude, Noah and Kurt's cab started to pull away Dave shook his head, reminding himself that it was after four in the morning, and joined Kyle in the backseat of their own taxi. He had a discussion topic for the ride home: why Kyle was _not_ allowed to play passive-aggressive manipulation games with new friends. At least with the ones who _weren't_ trying to touch her boobs.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

The drive back to their apartment had been a quiet one which Kurt was happy to blame on fatigue. For a little while he thought that Noah would have to carry Jude to his door as the other man seemed to be deep asleep most of the ride. Jude surprised them, however, by sitting up just as the cab pulled up in front of the building and shoving the fare into the driver's hand. He waved off both Kurt and Noah's protests with some garbled response as he climbed out of the taxi and onto the sidewalk; his companions really had no choice but to follow. Their thank you's were waved off like their objections, a bit grumpily too, making the elevator ride somewhat tense. That faded, though, when they stepped off and Jude smiled at them groggily, waved, and mumbled "see you later" as he stumbled down the hall. Noah followed Jude just far enough to make sure that he actually got into his apartment and didn't pass out somewhere along the way.

Neither Kurt nor Noah were very talkative as they entered their own place. After tossing his jacket on the couch (even after ten years, Kurt could not break that habit) Noah made a b-line for the kitchen, mumbling something about a sandwich. Kurt wanted to warn him against that, not just because eating this late was unhealthy (he conveniently forgot about the eight pączki he'd eaten after midnight) but also because his best friend had the _worst_ habit of falling asleep with food in his mouth. He let him go, though, telling himself that the awfulness of bologna and mayonnaise fermenting overnight in Noah's mouth was deserved if he took that sandwich to bed, and went to his room.

Kurt hung his coat and winter accessories up before stripping then tossing his clothes into their appropriate hampers. He was tired enough that, for a moment or two, he actually dared to consider skipping a shower. That ludicrous idea went away quickly enough, though, and Kurt grabbed up his sleep stuff before hopping into the closet someone dared to turn into a bathroom.

He didn't stay long in the shower, just enough time was spared for shampoo, conditioner, and a quick all over scrub. The day was starting to seep into Kurt's bones with a vengeance and the longer he stood under the warm spray the more he risked sinking to the tiled floor for the night—or at least until the water turned cold. Toweling off he put his pajamas on in the bathroom. It was a habit picked up on the road that he just couldn't get rid of. Kurt was glad for it too when he stepped out and found Noah, clad only in a pair of boxers, laying on his bed.

"You had better not be eating on _my_ bed, pal," he warned, eyeing the half of a sandwich in Noah's hand like it was sulfuric acid.

"Nope," Noah said right before stuffing the rest of his snack into his mouth. Kurt gagged while Noah chewed the too-big wad of food. "See?" He opened his mouth to show it was empty—except for a few speckled, sandwich-y remnants.

"What are you doing in my room, by the way?" he demanded swatting his best friend on the arm as he plopped down on the side not occupied by Noah. Conveniently, it was the side Kurt usually slept on and the side with the nightstand that he was stashing his moisturizer in. Kurt's nightly routine had diminished quite a bit since high school; being broke so often in the band's first few years meant facial creams went to the bottom of the necessity list along with designer clothes. Considering, though, that even Santana would (grudgingly) say his complexion was still as nice as it had been in high school Kurt was dealing just fine with generic toners and moisturizers. Plus, thanks mostly to Padma he'd come to see coupon clipping as a game and he did love games, especially when they left money in his wallet for scarves.

Noah shrugged as Kurt started to dab on his moisturizer. "I kinda lied when I said I finished my room. Everything's there I just…" He trailed off into a shit-eating grin Kurt sometimes thought that he knew too well.

Kurt rolled his eyes. "You just forgot to put it all together so you're invading _mine_, right?"

"Aw, come on, don't be like that," Noah said with his best pout. "Like you said earlier, I'm a snuggler. You love it when you've got all this," he gestured to his chest and abs, "to back up into." His face twisted up into a combination of grimace and bedroom eyes that Kurt had dubbed "the smolder"; possibly because he'd invented it after they'd watched "Tangled" together (Noah would admit to _nothing_). While that look made most women and gay men weak at the knees it just made Kurt giggle hysterically.

"Oh no, bitch, in my bed _you _are the little spoon."

"Hey, as long as you make me breakfast after sleep-humping me, that's fine. I'm flexible."

Scowling, Kurt reached across the bed to punch Noah in the arm. "You're an _ass_ that's what you are," he growled. "I cannot _believe_ you told everyone about that. Jerk."

Noah stuck his tongue out as he rubbed the spot where Kurt's fist had landed. "Well, _you_ should have kept the watermelon story to yourself. Honestly, that's one a good friend would save until after I've been dating the girl for at least a couple of weeks. It's a cautionary tale for her at that point. One filled with things she should never, ever let me do. Or, you know, a pointer if she's into that shit."

Another eye roll was directed at his best friend accompanied this time with a sigh that Kurt just couldn't hold in. "I'm pretty sure that human fruit salad isn't a fetish of Kyle's. She strikes me as more of a leather and handcuffs sort of girl."

"Can only hope." The look on Noah's face was positively dopey.

"Stop planning the wedding, Casanova, getting owned at bowling doesn't mean she'll be dropping her panties for you anytime soon," Kurt told him as he put his toner and moisturizer back in their drawer. He scooted up on the bed after and poked Noah (lightly) in the ribs. "What _is_ it with you and women who kick you around?"

"What is it with you and getting large, hard objects shoved up your ass?"

"Touché."

Noah leaned toward the bed's center just enough to sling an arm over Kurt's shoulders, pulling the smaller man into his side. Kurt let him pull, his head tucking in under Noah's chin and his right arm slinging over the other man's stomach while Noah rubbed his back. It was a familiar position, a very intimate one that neither of their teenage selves would have been comfortable with. The days when Kurt would have squealed and refused to look at a shirtless man, let alone accept a nearly naked one holding onto him in his bed, felt a lifetime away. He supposed that the same could be said for Noah about having a gay best friend and cuddling up to him like it was absolutely nothing. They'd come a very, very long way in ten years and Kurt was never more grateful for that when it hit him just why Noah was there.

Kurt turned his head in the hollow of Noah's shoulder, pressing suddenly wet eyes into his best friend's collarbone. "I'm okay," Kurt assured Noah when tears rolled onto skin and his arm tightened around Kurt's shoulders. The scent of sweat, deodorant and something purely Noah slid into Kurt's lungs as he inhaled a shaky breath. "Really. I'm just…_relieved_."

"'Kay," Noah's voice was a distant rumble as Kurt had already started to drift off. "Me too."

Noah's room was put together; he just didn't want Kurt to be alone that night. More than anyone else Noah knew how Kurt had agonized over the disappearance of Dave Karofsky. In fact, aside from his dad and Blaine, Noah had been the only one who knew about the kiss for _years_. He was the only person Kurt had felt alright talking to about it, the only one who ever saw the worry on Kurt's face when Dave had been mentioned in passing, and the only person who had ever seen Kurt cry about it. That's because out of all the people in Kurt's life, his brother included, ten years had seen Noah become the most essential part of what home was for Kurt and he liked to think that the feeling was mutual. By the fact that he already knew Noah would still be holding onto him (probably drooling in his hair) when morning came, Kurt was sure that it was.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Dave felt cleaner than he ever had when he stepped out of the shower that night, well, technically morning, and it had nothing to do with the new body wash Kyle had picked out for him. A good ten years' worth of guilt had been sloughed off that night when Kurt forgave him. There would never be any forgetting what he'd done in high school but talking to Kurt had definitely settled it in the past where it belonged. Everything felt a little bit different; like suddenly it was easy to see that he was _not_ the same person who had been scared and angry enough to threaten, push, and steal from another kid. He could believe his friends when they said he was a good man. Hell, maybe it meant that he was going to be a good man _for_ another man someday, sappy as that sounded.

When Dave ambled out of his bathroom and into his bedroom he found evidence that Kyle had been in there before him; the evidence being the pajamas and underwear neatly laid out on top of his comforter. They were his favorite pajamas as well, or his _new_ favorites, anyway. The old ones a black shirt with a rainbow paw-print above the words "trophy cub" and their gray flannel bottoms had been worn to pieces; he still missed them too. His new favorites, also a present from Kyle (pajamas were her "thing") were pretty good, though. The shirt was dark green and had his favorite Shakespearian quote printed across it in elegant gold lettering below an ornate theatre mask. The bottoms paired with it (at least when given to him) were brown flannel dotted with black bears—because if Kyle didn't crack a joke, even with presents, then it just _wasn't_ right.

Kyle's sense of humor was what Dave liked best about her, though, or at least _most_ of the time. As he pulled on his Shakespeare-n-bear pj's (Jude's lovely epithet for them) that night was in the "most of the time" category. After he'd towel dried his hair to springy perfection, he decided to go and tell her that.

Directly across the hall from his, Kyle's bedroom door was wide open, a sign dating back to their dorm years that meant walking right in was allowable, no knocking required. By the loud "whirring" sound that drifted out of her bedroom Dave already knew she was sitting at her wrought-iron vanity table, drying her hair before he entered. She saw him through the glass as he walked in and gestured towards the bed with the hand that was holding her brush. Dave took the hint and returned to his bedroom to flick the lights off before padding back into Kyle's. He threw the comforter and sheets back on her bed then climbed in, purposefully taking the left side. Kyle spared a moment from her hair care to give him a scowl that he knew wasn't serious. Dave replied by burrowing under the blankets and rearranging the pillows to suit him.

"You are _so_ lucky I love you, asshole," Kyle muttered running a hand experimentally through her dark, wavy hair to judge its dryness. It must have been to her satisfaction since she stood up and turned off the lights before settling in next to him.

"I know," he said softly, almost to the point of being inaudible, though he really did mean it.

His best friend seemed to hear him though, and all the silent implications that went along with it because in a matter of seconds Dave found his head on her chest while Kyle's fingers curled in the short hair at the nape of his neck. The tension literally shot out of Dave; his BFF's hands were magic. He needed to start remembering that because one day Kyle was going to use that power for evil and then he would most certainly be fucked. For now though, she stayed off the Dark Side and reminded him wordlessly that he was loved, safe, and if Kyle had anything to say about it, that he always would be.

The steady rhythm of Kyle's breathing along with the way she kept stroking his neck and the softness of his human pillow (Dave had _not_ been kidding with Kurt earlier about boobs, Kyle's chest was made for napping on) had Dave half-asleep within seconds. The Sandman had almost claimed him when his best friend's voice slowly parted the air.

"So…"

Dave glanced up at Kyle with sleep-glazed eyes. Her smirk did not bode well but he responded because he knew that ignoring her would never, ever, solve the problem. "Yes, Porthos?"

"Tiff's description was right. Ass of a fourteen year old virgin."

He groaned against the soft fabric of her shirt. "God dammit…_really_?"

"Hey, I just met the model your type is based on, mister; I have witty observations to make. Maybe a chart too."

"Fuck you."

"No. Let's not. I like you too much." She chuckled and wrapped her other arm around his shoulders to hug him. For a moment or two Dave _actually_ believed that she was done. He closed his eyes again, preparing for (hopefully) good dreams. The insides of his eyelids were present for approximately half a second.

"So, when are you gonna tap that?"

Dave attempted to glare at her but it probably wasn't very convincing. "I will bite your nipple off, cunt."

Kyle snorted. "No you won't. You would never desecrate your favorite headrest."

She was right, there was practically an imprint on Kyle's left boob from all the times he'd fallen asleep against it. He still flipped her off, though, for pride's sake. Kyle's loyalty was proven when she didn't stop massaging his neck after he did that or push him away. She just chuckled and let him wind his arms about her middle, not even complaining about the hard clench of his fingers against her hip and ribs.

"Poor baby," it was only half a tease, "he's had a _long_ day."

"He has," Dave agreed in his most tired voice. He nudged her chin with the top of his head. "And he would like a back scratch."

"Bitch, I do not love you that much." She said it even as her hand slid down to the spot between his shoulder blades that she instinctively knew was the problem spot.

"Do too."


	7. As Said Best By Emerson

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Constructive criticism from readers is greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** Thank you's go to my beta, aureliamonte, and to winterswallows for _her_ help, guidance, and annoying way of being right. Just so you all know there are pictures on my LJ that go along with this chapter specifically, so if you want to see those, click on my profile and visit Comic Cons seven there. Toodles.

* * *

"Seriously, that Jesus statue is _scary_," Santana told Kurt. He had the feeling that it was the third time she'd mentioned the damn thing but he refrained from complaining about this.

Considering that Kurt was only half-paying attention to her it seemed a little bit unfair of him. He'd become a little preoccupied with finding just where in the fuck his favorite cerulean sweater had gone since five minutes into her call. If it had been left it at home, home being the seldom-occupied apartment that he and Noah rented together in L.I.C., Kurt might just tear his hair out. They had sublet the place for the nine months that they were sure to be in New Haven and Kurt very well couldn't barge back in and demand to go through their tenants' closets. Well, he _could_ but he seriously doubted that the Herzfeld twins would appreciate that _or_ the resulting mood Kurt would be in should he not be able to find the damn thing; good sublessees were hard to find.

He needed the sweater because A) it was his favorite and he wanted it. And B) because he _knew_ how cute he looked in the damn thing with a snug pair of jeans to highlight his lean legs and ass. Kyle had agreed to a shopping trip on Thursday, it was currently Wednesday evening and Kurt _needed_ that sweater. It was his second outing in New Haven (trips to the grocery with Noah where he wore sweats and shades did _not_ count, dammit) and he wanted to look his best. He had boutiques to impress. And new friends.

Kurt had an image of bright hazel-green eyes looking him over in that sweater appreciatively and felt something intangible run down his spine.

_No. Never. Not in any universe._

He literally shook thoughts of Dave eying him off with steely conviction. The other man and he had far too much between them for anything sexual to start up. Besides, Kurt genuinely wanted to keep in touch with Dave, maybe even be his friend and not just some…_acquaintance-with-an-awkward-but-sort-of-mending-history_. That was _not_ going to happen if Kurt's libido nosed in there.

"Are you even listening to me, Twinkie-The-Kurt?" Santana's frustrated voice broke through the lecture Kurt was giving himself.

"Yes, yes, giant Jesus weirds you out," Kurt huffed as he tossed yet another shirt that _wasn't_ his prized cerulean sweater onto his already sad looking bed. "_God dammit_…" He muttered that last bit to himself and began to seriously consider the ramifications of driving (or well, taking a cab) up to L.I.C.

"What are you looking for?" Santana's voice had slipped into that cool, soft, almost _motherly_ tone she so often used on tour when dealing with Kurt and his band-mates on bad days.

"My favorite sweater," Kurt said, not even surprised by how she just _knew_ what he was doing while almost five thousand miles away and a time zone ahead.

There was a saying in theatre that the stage manager was "God" since they were in charge of _everything_ during shows. As Dorothy North's tour manager Santana, besides seeing to it that all shows ran smoothly, _also_ cared for her performers' wellbeing when they weren't on stage which meant a _whole_ lot of messy shit she never got a break from. Especially since their lead guitarist had put a ring on her. Logic dictated then, at least as far as Kurt was concerned, that being such a tour manager made Santana Lopez the all-knowing, all-seeing and occasionally benevolent Empress of all motherfucking Creation. As such she was meant to be loved, feared, venerated, and never ever questioned. All of those commandments Kurt could follow very well, most of the time anyway.

"The teal one that you wear with tight jeans to accentuate the fact your ass was made for pounding straight through a mattress?"

"_Cerulean_. But yes, that's the one."

"Shut up, it's a color with some blue and some green. Get the fuck over it." Kurt could _feel_ her scowling into the phone. The near-perfect plush curves of her mouth and the displeased slope that it could take were burned into his cerebral cortex better than most of the lyrics he had penned with Jules over the years. "Have you looked in your big carryon?"

Kurt rolled his eyes but went to dig out the leather bag that bordered on suitcase-size anyway. "I've looked _everywhere_," he whined as he pulled it out and unzipped it. "I've scraped through every empty box, every tote, I even went through Finn, Padma, and No—" Flipping the top back Kurt found the sweater, along with the long-sleeve gray tee he favored to wear beneath it.

Santana's laughter had no shortage of self-satisfied undertones as it danced through the receiver and into Kurt's ear. "One day, little boy, you will _learn_ that your Auntie Tana has all the answers. Now, tell me why you needed it so bad. And the truth now," she added evilly, "or I'll use my omnipotent powers for evil and set a plague of moths on your precious."

"Couldn't just accept '_thank you_'s like a normal deity, huh?" Kurt couldn't resist teasing her.

"I used to accept hot lady-virgins but then I got married," Santana countered cheerfully. "Come on, Kurt, start talking. Who is he?"

Sighing, Kurt plopped down onto the one square foot of his bed that wasn't covered in clothes. "The sweater's a necessity because I'm going shopping with a new friend tomorrow. You _know_ that I have to be as hot as possible when I'm on a hunt. Those fucking clerks need to both fear and adore my sense of style so that they know better to come at me with shit suggestions."

"Boy or girl?" Santana asked, like she was trying to be sly.

"The person I'm specifically going to shop with is a girl but her best friend is a guy and I'm pretty sure he'll be there."

"Ah, I see," she purred. "And is best friend hot? No, no, wait! Let me guess! He's tall and broad shouldered with amazing arms? Maybe a little bit scruffy 'round the jaw line?"

Kurt did his _very_ best to ignore how everything Santana had thus far guessed about Dave was true and a dead ringer for his "type." At least since Blaine and he called it quits before going off to college.

"All of the above and I'm also sure he's gay. However, I'm even surer that he's not going to be fucking me against a brick wall anytime soon." His cock had _not_ twitched a little at that thought. No it had _not_. He scowled down at his crotch while Santana cackled.

"Oh really, and why is that?" she asked. Kurt could _feel_ the right corner of her mouth going up in that diabolical smirk that was completely, utterly and _only_ Santana. "Don't tell me you're going to be celibate now? Or wait, does he have an STD? Is he all HIV'd up like Ben off of _Queer as Folk_?" Vaguely, Kurt wondered what was worse; that she sounded excited over the prospect of him having a terminal love affair _or_ that her enthusiasm didn't bother him.

"Because it's Dave Karofsky, Tana." That sentence ended her amusement, just like he knew it would.

Like Noah, Rachel, Quinn, and Finn, over the years Santana had come to understand the full breadth of what had happened between Kurt and Dave and she had been the most sympathetic towards Dave. Kurt suspected that it was a feeling of comradery for a fellow teenage closet case. Santana would know better than anyone, Kurt included, what Dave had been going through; how frightened and trapped he must have felt for those four hormonal-hell-on-earth years.

It took a few seconds for Santana to respond to him and when she did her voice was hesitant, maybe even a little bit frightened. "And—and is he…_okay_? Are _you_ okay?"

Kurt didn't even have to think about her second question, not really. As strange as it seemed, and truly, it _did_, when he sat down and thought about it, he _was_ okay with Dave. High school was a decade behind them though it felt like longer. Kurt had stopped fearing Dave before he graduated, after talking to his father and being afraid _for_ him had replaced that. It was hard—if not impossible—to hate someone when you wondered pretty consistently whether or not their guilt, shame, and self-loathing had snapped them into an early grave. Every word of forgiveness Kurt had spoken was as earnest as Dave's apology; he'd let it all go as simple as that.

"Yeah, Tana, I'm fine," he told her, feeling a smile spread over his face. "So's he. Really, we're both…_cool_."

There was no missing the "whoosh" of Santana's breath as she exhaled in relief. "Good, really. I'm glad." Her tone wasn't laced with even an ounce of sarcasm and for a few precious seconds a downright warm silence floated between the two of them. That didn't last long, however. Santana couldn't let it since moments where she was sincere _and_ compassionate (especially compassionate) quickly turned terrifying for all parties involved.

"Shit. Okay, so how did you run into him? Glory hole?"

Kurt laughed despite himself at the jibe. "No, smartass…it was a club. I didn't recognize him at first and sent him a drink." After a moment he added, because it was certainly true and because it was _Santana_ to whom he was speaking, "I _totally_ would have been on my knees for him if I hadn't eventually realized who he was, though. Or would have _tried _that. Tana, that boy got _hot_."

Santana laughed. "Details! Where was Noah when this happened and—_wait_! You're shopping with him and his bestie tomorrow? Oh, shit, yes give me details! Jules is going to be _so_ mad she chose to nap _now_." An almost girlish squeal came through the phone along with a shuffling sound then a beep. The background noises, although still light, of seagulls, other people and the very distant crash of waves came through more prominently. Santana had just rearranged herself to get super comfy wherever she was on the beach and put him on speakerphone to enjoy it. "Story time, _go_!"

Kurt leaned back against a pile of shirts and sighed. It was an act, though, and Santana knew that. "Fine, fine. If I _must_."

He told her the whole thing. Meeting Dave at Saguaro's (though he omitted certain things said by Noah), chasing him, Kyle and Jude, the conversation at Estelle's and everything at the bowling alley. Kurt also spoiled things for Santana, just a little bit, by telling her that, since via a phone call with Finn on Monday night, his brother was already abreast of the situation. And since Finn knew Rachel knew and _that_ meant Quinn knew too. Aside from having no one from the "Lima Circle" to surprise with Kurt's story, though, Santana was content with his information.

"So Dave Karofsky got all cultured and hot, did he?" she stated more than asked after Kurt had lapsed into silence.

"I'd say he mostly did what the rest of us did—you know, _grew the fuck up_—but yeah," he said. That seemed like such a blasé description of events when spoken aloud and Kurt's tone probably didn't help. Such a mundane description did not make it any less true, though. Every saying about time somehow fixing _everything_, the ones preached by tired, anxious parents to eye-rolling kids for thousands of years, were right. Time healed all wounds. And fuck if it didn't make Kurt feel _so_ fucking old when he had to pause and appreciate that fact.

Santana, on the other end of the line was chuckling as Kurt sat up, straining to check his face in the wall mirror for brand new wrinkles. "On a scale of one to ten, how hot did he get, exactly?" she asked, again as if trying to be wily with him. He scowled at his phone, picturing her all spread out on the sunny Brazilian beach, a Mojito in her hand and looking smug enough to cause a toothache. Sometimes—no _oftentimes_—Kurt sort of hated the woman.

"Objectively, I'd peg him as an eight, at least," he tried to sound as passive as possible. To prove to himself that he _was_ passive on the subject Kurt stood and began to straighten the mountain of clothes on his bed and prepare them for return to their respective homes.

"Objectively, huh?" Santana didn't take the hint. "Okay, _subjectively_, then, what is he?"

"Tana, I don't have any intention of sleeping with Dave, okay?" _At least anymore_, an unhelpful little voice at the back of Kurt's head just _had_ to add that on. He growled as he grabbed several shirts and took them to his closet, hanging them up forcefully.

"I _never_ said anything about sleeping with him," she sang, all sweet and innocent-like. "I just asked how cute that you—_personally_—thought _Dave_ had become. My query was for purely empirical ends, sweetness."

"Tana." Kurt hoped that she could read enough into his tone to know that he was glaring at his phone so hard he was trying set her on fire through their connection. She did, of course, because Santana Lopez knew _every-fucking-thing_, and graciously, she ceased her teasing. After one last dig.

"I'm going to put '_eleven_' down as your answer," she said. "Now stop trying to kill me with your thoughts; your deity doesn't take kindly to such blasphemy."

Kurt bit down on his tongue to keep back the tart retort that had blossomed on his tongue. All joking aside, when Santana was miffed at someone things that were needed by that said someone tended to go missing until her amnesty had been regained. Kurt did _not_ want to play sweater hunt again and grovel, so he kept his mouth shut.

"So…" The superiority just _dripped_ from Santana's tone, so rich and oily that Kurt could have buttered toast with it. The delicate sound of sipping rattled through the line followed closely by the light smack of Santana's lips when she was done. "What exactly is Mr. Karofsky doing these days, hmm? Aside from catching you by surprise, of course."

Choosing to ignore her taunt (though, admittedly it was _really_ fucking hard to do), Kurt answered while he continued to put away clothes. "Writing, actually." His nose wrinkled while his hands rushed to smooth out one of his nicer button-down shirts before returning it to his closet. It occurred to Kurt that he needed to learn to count to ten or some shit when something couldn't be found; his poor clothes didn't deserve a beating for _his_ bad memory. "He and Kyle—that's the best friend I'm shopping with—they collaborate on graphic novels. Dave writes she draws."

"_Kyle_?" Santana asked. "Her name is Kyle? Who the fuck names their daughter _Kyle_?"

"People who weren't thinking clearly enough to choose the name of a guitarist." He grinned to himself and moved the phone away from his ear in preparation for the angry retort that was going to blast through the line.

"I am not named after that guy and _you_ knowit!" Deity or not, Santana was sometimes easy to predict. "How many times have we had this conversation? It's a contraction of 'Santa Ana', or '_Saint Anne_' to gabachos like you."

"I don't think you're allowed to use the word 'gabacho' seeing as your mom is white," Kurt countered effortlessly. "Especially since we _both _know it means 'foreigner' and we come from the same country. Also," he couldn't stop himself from tacking it on, "how high were your parents when they thought anything that they spawned should be connected to the word 'saint'? That's _asking_ for a problem child."

"Not high, just Catholic."

"Same dif, Saint Anne."

Santana huffed across the line. "True. _Back_ to Karofsky now." Kurt could hear her sipping on her drink again while he continued to sort and hang. "Huh, never would have pegged him for a closet geek."

"Or a closet case?" he joked.

"No, actually _that_ makes plenty of sense, looking back on it," she told him. "Think about it; he had issues with you and was kind of a dick. Aside from little things like gender, background and style Karof—_Dave_—" Kurt bit back a grunt of irritation; he was _never_ going to get Santana to say that name without saccharine now, she'd claimed it as her own. "—and I could have been a matching set when you compare us side by side."

It was all true, Kurt couldn't deny that. And incredibly insightful, which, horrifically, he could not deny either _or_ the fact that Santana was very good at that sort of thing anymore. What Kurt _could_ do, though, was refuse to acknowledge all of that out loud and make a joke.

"Issues with me, huh? What's made you stay in my life for twelve years then, highness?"

"Paychecks, I'm banging a chick that—for whatever reason—adores you, and, best of all, my work sometimes requires me to slap you around. How _can_ a girl say no?"

"Touché."

There was a lull of easy quiet that stretched between them for a several long moments Kurt started to believe that their check in had come to a close. He loved Santana, and while he knew neither of them could admit something like it, he missed her. However, there was _no_ one that he ever missed desperately enough to hang on the phone with just to hear them breathing. A goodbye was sliding onto Kurt's tongue when Santana's voice finally crackled through yet again.

"Hmm…okay weird…" Santana sounded more like she was musing to herself than actually speaking to him.

"What?" Kurt asked.

"I'm getting nothing when I Google 'Karofsky'," she said. Very delicate tapping noises followed a pause, barely discernable above the beach-life clamor that surrounded his friend. "_And_ nothing for 'Karofsky comics'. I think Dave might have been bullshitting you about his career, sweetie."

For a second her words had Kurt worried and briefly he panicked, wondering why Dave would lie to him. Then something wriggled at the back of his mind, itching between memories of pączki, coffee, and confessions. Important information, it clicked and Kurt almost slapped himself in the head for forgetting. He'd written it down on a sticky note and put it onto the back of his laptop so that he could look it up himself later on. Of course, being on the back of his laptop the thing he was trying to remember was prone to slipping away once Kurt started scanning his emails; sometimes Kurt was kind of a moron.

"Oh, shit. Yeah, he doesn't use David Karofsky," he told Santana even as he glanced over at his Mac-Book to the constantly overlooked blue post-it and the words scrawled on it. "He goes as 'David King' professionally."

On the sunny, Brazilian beach Santana made _very_ disquieting noise, like she was choking on her drink and sputtered.

"Tana?" he exclaimed, concerned. "Fucking hell, woman, I know you're hardcore lesbian but learn to swallow!"

"Fuck off," she growled between coughing and a _little_ bit of spitting. She spoke again after one or two deep, calming breaths had been taken in. "Did I just hear you correctly? Dave Karofsky, the Dave Karofsky that _we_ went to high school with, _that guy_, is David King?"

Kurt could _feel_ a unibrow knitting on his forehead. "Um…_yes_. I was surprised to see him that night, Tana, but not so much that I didn't pay attention to what he told me." An involuntarily smile pulled the corners of Kurt's mouth upwards as he remembered Dave telling him how the name had been chosen. It was a cheesy joke between Dave and Kyle, about being King and Queen and "ruling bitches" or something like that. Really, the whole story was sort of lame, but the bashful smile on Dave's face when he told it…well it made Kurt see it as lame in an endearing way.

"I've read his shit if he's the same guy," Santana ruptured his thoughts once again. Kurt couldn't tell if she was excited or just surprised. It was probably the latter. No, definitely the latter, only three things ever put Santana Lopez in an "excited" state: nice tits, royalties and plagues.

"His novellas," she continued. Kurt had to shake his head to get rid of the image of Santana sending a horde of locusts down upon small children and focus on what she was saying to him. "I own about eight of them. And I _think_ I remember comics or graphic-whatever-the-fuck mentioned in the 'About the Author' section."

Kurt was more than a little bit stunned. Dave had been in his life—well, in a very, very _vague_ sense, and _okay_ maybe it was technically Santana's life but still—and Kurt hadn't even known it. Something crawled up his spine and burst in his head sending chills through him. Good or bad, he couldn't exactly say but it was _definitely_ bizarre.

And he may have liked it.

Santana was talking again and for the millionth time since she'd called Kurt had to shut off his own thoughts so that he could hear her. "You should read his—Oh—_Ooh_!"

"What?" he asked. There was something in Santana's tone, something that melded idiosyncratic and worthy-of-suspicion very neatly. Something very…._Santana_. Kurt doubted anything good would come of it.

"You, my little front-baby, should go to my bedroom and open up the green storage container that's labeled 'mis libros'." Santana was practically cooing, and quite frankly, _that_ caused his stomach to knot up a bit. All noises typically associated with happiness when coming from Santana were automatically to be associated with carnage. Or boobs. Mostly carnage, though. "You want the one with the title Skin. It'll be near the top. I think it's going to..._interest_ you."

Those knots in Kurt's stomach were starting to double. "_Skin_? Is it one of Dave's?" That was probably a stupid question. Okay, given the conversation that had led to Santana telling him where to dig it up, it had to be a very stupid question. He ignored that point though and charged on. "What's it about?"

"Read it," Santana said those words in such a way that they were both succinct and coy in the same breath. "Like I said, you'll find it interesting."

"_Santana_," Kurt positively loathed the way his voice turned to a whine and even more than that the way that it had his dubious friend chuckling. His god was not a loving god.

"Oh would you look at the time!" she didn't even bother to hid her laughter or feign innocence out of politeness. "I should go wake my wife up and roll her around a little before dinner time. You have fun tomorrow and don't forget our plane should be arriving at five o'clock Saturday night, 'kay?"

"I hate you," he growled. "So much. You just don't _know_."

"Flattery gets you nowhere, Baby-Face, I'm a married woman." Kurt was amazed that the phony sugar in Santana's voice didn't choke her. "Kiss-kiss. You keep our favorite breeder out of trouble and maybe, before I fuck my hot wife's brains out tonight, I'll tell her you send love."

"You're obnoxious." He intended to end the call with that but he just couldn't. Despite how insufferable Santana truly was Kurt fucking loved her. "Be safe. Bitch."

"_Bye-bye, puto de mi corazón_."

Kurt shut off his phone while she cackled giving her the last laugh but refusing her to relish the moment. Or rather, he refused to punish himself by listening to it any further.

Plugging his phone back into the charger and setting onto his nightstand, Kurt surveyed the mess still on his bed. What he _should_ do was stay right where he was and return his room to its proper order. Maybe even take the extra time to rearrange outfits in nice coordinating clutches. That sense of duty to his apparel, however, was at war with the urge to go find the book that Santana had been talking about.

Most of him wanted to just say "fuck it" with cleaning up his things (which was a first in at least six years) and head into the girls' apartment. He'd been curious about Dave's writing since the moment the other man had mentioned his trade. For Kurt to now know that the opportunity to satiate that curiosity—without clicking around Amazon or hunting up then _through_ the nearest bookstore—had been sitting a mere thirty feet away the whole time was…Well, mostly it was kind of laughable and a touch surprising. A little bit frustrating too, actually.

There was another, small, part chiming in as well at the back of Kurt's head though. One that wondered if he would actually like what he found in the pages birthed from Dave's imagination. Reading someone's work, at least when it was someone he _knew_ (sort of, well, they were getting there) suddenly felt like so intimate. Maybe more intimate than sex. Each word would have come from Dave's innermost thoughts; each word was something close to Dave's soul, fuck, _each word was_ _part of Dave_.

It was a paralyzing sort of realization and the knots that Santana had put into Kurt's stomach with all of her teasing began to tighten up again. But those knots didn't feel like much at all when Kurt's curiosity swelled up and smashed against his reservation, breaking it to bits. Kurt found himself fishing out the keys to the girls apartment (in _his_ safekeeping because Noah misplaced things even more so than he did) and marching out of his bedroom before a conscious decision had even been made.

Thankfully, Noah was nowhere in sight as Kurt made his way through the common area and out the front door. He would have questioned, Noah _always_ questioned, and quite frankly he really didn't feel like speaking right then. There was a jittery, hard weight in the middle of Kurt's body, tugging him through the whitewashed door with the brass "503' below its peephole, into the backmost bedroom and to the olive storage container that sat inside of it.

Kurt stared at the Spanish words, written neatly in Santana's concise, familiar hand on its duct tape label for a few seconds. His hands rested on the lid, itching and fearful now that he was actually standing there. Biting his lip, Kurt curled his fingers beneath the edges, unsnapping the fasteners and pushing the lid aside.

The book that Santana had mentioned wasn't just near the top it was _on_ top, the very top. It laid above the others as if it had known he was coming. Or as if Santana had foreseen this. For a second or two Kurt forgot about Dave and his book and wondered just how fucking true the whole Santana-is-God thing was because _this_? Shit like this really did give him the brief impulse to go find a breasty virgin (or ten) and present them to her on his knees.

Fucking. Unnerving. Shit.

Still, Kurt's rational brain managed to push all of that away (for the time being) and focus back on the book. It wasn't particularly thick; Santana _had_ called it a novella, after all. Kurt estimated that it was about as voluminous as a copy of Steinbeck's Of Mice And Men, give or take a couple of pages. When he picked it up, which he did very gingerly, almost reverently (if that word could _ever_ apply to Kurt) to examine it more closely his palms positively tingled.

The gently worn paperback cover was fascinating in a macabre way, all dark and gloomy and the font matched it. There was a tagline toward the upper right-hand corner, a quote from something Kurt was sure he'd read before but couldn't place. Kurt licked his lips as he ran a finger across the slightly raised surface where the title and Dave's penname were emblazoned. That faint electricity popped again, warm and making a slow race from finger tip to knuckle to wrist and all the way up his shoulder until all of Kurt felt faintly static.

Flipping the book Kurt scanned the back cover bypassing the synopsis and instead darting to a small gold medal at the bottom that read "PFLAG Approved". Below that was a brief message declaring that all of the book's profits, after printing costs, were donated to help with the Youth in Crisis hotlines. Peppered to the right of that were short critical excerpts concerning the contents; all of them were very flattering. When Kurt's eyes finally drifted back up to the summary he felt something, perhaps his heart, stutter ever so slightly.

_Lying to yourself is something that can become disturbingly easy to do, especially when you can't stand the face that you see in the mirror. When you keep a secret so big, one that you know will shatter everything around you, that the way it festers and burns becomes the only thing you can like about yourself. And love can camouflage itself in hatred and cause you to do things you'd never dreamed yourself capable of. These are all facts of which James Smith is acutely aware and the stress of trying to keep them from killing him is starting to show. Not so much in James but in the unfortunate object of his 'affections'._

_Just because James is the one cracking doesn't mean that he's the one who's going to be broken._

Kurt stared at those words for fuck knows only how long, though it had to have been a good deal of time considering his legs became sore and forced him to drop down on the edge of Jules and Santana's bed. Though that _may_ have been due to every muscle in his body going stiff rather than time. His hands were shaking, hell, all of him was shaking. Not a lot, Kurt was hardly a quivering little bitch but there was no denying his nerves were none too steady as he sat there rereading that summary over and over again.

All of those knots were back in his stomach along with brand new ones and a tightness in his throat. Kurt wasn't sure if he felt nauseous or frightened or even anything at all. But that pressure from earlier had returned, that soft guiding, controlling weight slid out from his middle and into his hands. It didn't really steady them but it did move them and Kurt opened up the book, finding himself on the dedication page and read the very simple phrase there.

_To Kurt._


	8. Every Time We Meet

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Reviews are greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** Thank you's go to my beta, aureliamonte, and to winterswallows for _her_ help, guidance, and annoying way of being right. I think that it's fair to let everyone know that I'm moving back to school this week and so updates are probably going to start taking a forever and a half now instead of just a forever. Sorry but school comes first.

* * *

The relationship that Dave shared with Kyle was often misconstrued by people who didn't know them. Too many, when they passed them on the street, seemed to gravitate towards the idea that they were a couple. A _couple-_couple, as in the straight-and-probably-fucking-each-other's-brains-out-behind-closed-doors kind of couple. Most of the time Dave sincerely couldn't wrap his head around why strangers would think something like that. It was as if the world just could not accept two people of the opposite sex hugging or being relaxed around one another unless a fierce amount of humping was involved at some point. Quite frankly it irritated him.

Then, occasionally, moments would pop up when Dave was able to stand back and objectively take in just what he and Kyle were doing. During those moments it suddenly became _so_ easy to understand just why some little old ladies would stop them at the grocery store and ask how long they'd been together. Thursday morning was one big, messy hodgepodge of those moments mashed infuriatingly together.

"Kyle, we're gonna be late," he reminded her for maybe the fifth or sixth time since he'd gotten up that morning. As Dave's teeth were gritted just a little and he was glaring at her when he spoke, it was more of a hurry-the-fuck-up nag than a reminder. Which, a little voice (which sounded _way_ too much like Kyle) at the back of his head, pointed out that that was _precisely_ the reaction she was aiming for.

"We have forty minutes, Athos," Kyle told him in an patronizing tone that could needle right under his skin like nothing else. "And I'm sure if we're late Kurt's not going to lose his mind with worry; he's got our cells. Chill the fuck out." She sighed dramatically as she capped her mascara. "Jesus Christ, I know you aren't exactly a morning person but would it kill you to start the day with something more positive than 'get your ass in the car, Kyle'?" Her voice deepened, clearly a mocking his tone. "Maybe a compliment? You know, tell me I'm pretty or some other fake bullshit? Just once, in lieu of the bitching? That would be fan-fucking-tastic."

_This_. Sitting, fully dressed—in clothes that _Kyle_ had picked out—on her bed and watching her flit half-naked about the room while she picked out her own outfit, this was _exactly_ why people thought that they were fucking. Because most sane, rational men had to be getting pretty consistent blowjobs to suffer through this sort of shit. Or they were old and their wills had been broken by their crazy wives eons beforehand _with_ stuff like this coupled with manic sex.

Not Dave Karofsky though, _he_ was a masochist of a much more complicated breed. Dave Karofsky was gay so he couldn't really appreciate the view as Kyle made him snap her bra up in the back. He did it anyway, though, quietly seething, questioning his good sense, and trying to recall why he just couldn't ditch the bitch.

Dave was sure that his and Kyle's relationship could be considered a very offbeat brand of domestic abuse most of the time.

"You're fucking pretty-pretty princess, Porthos," he growled tossing one of the small deco pillows from her bed at his best friend. "Now would you finish getting dressed so we can go? Pants, shoes, get a move on!"

Kyle ignored the pillow as it struck her hip, hitting the exposed patch of blue lotuses tattooed there then bouncing off. "You're not committing, I don't buy it," she told him airily. She opened up the large black closet by her vanity table. Out came several shirts, skirts, and pairs of jeans which were tossed over the vanity stool. They were accompanied by an utterly diabolical smile that said Kyle might just try _all_ of them on.

Dave glared at her for a few more seconds, gnawing on his tongue and flirting with the idea of knocking his best friend out with one of the empty aluminum easels sitting not too far away, dressing her himself, then carrying her down to the truck. He dismissed that quickly though, knowing he probably couldn't go through with it. Cunt that she could be, Dave loved Kyle. Not to mention aluminum was _so_ not going to make a dent in that hard head of hers _and_ he couldn't drive her truck, which, as the vehicle with the better snow/ice ratings, was definitely the one leaving the garage today. Kyle's truck was a stick shift and the last time that Dave had attempted driving one of those he'd gone into a ditch after nearly taking out a telephone pole. His knuckles had been white for a week and he _knew_ that Ed and Ernie had left the experience with a couple of gray hairs.

So instead of violence Dave tried honey with Kyle. Honey laced with much vinegar in his phoniest grin. Which, of course, Dave knew his cunty BFF couldn't ignore. Again, their rapport was as much psychological torture as it was loyalty, love, and mutual enjoyment of male genitalia.

"_Shall I compare thee to a summer's day_?" he asked in his best Shakespearian impersonation, which, of course, was fucking terrible. Dave had a memory for sonnets, poems and classic literature but he absolutely did _not_ have the acting skills for them. He ended up looking like a goof—which, luckily, was something that amused Kyle to no end.

"No you shall not; I'm totally a winter not a summer." She tried to sound snotty but Dave could see the lines around her eyes crinkling. "Cosmo told me so."

"_Thou art more lovely and more temperate_," he crooned tossing another pillow at her.

Kyle deflected the pillow with her elbow and countered with, "I am not." Dave noted that she had grabbed a pair of red leggings from her short dresser and was in the process of pulling them on.

"_Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May, and summer's lease hath all too short a date_," Dave continued and stood to strike a soliloquy pose—or at least what he _thought_ was a soliloquy pose. Not that "soliloquy pose" a technical term for any fucking thing to begin with. He ignored all of that and continued to recite Sonnet Eighteen in his loudest, most contrived English accent. "_Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines, and often is his gold complexion dimm'd; And every fair from fair sometime declines, by chance, or nature's changing course, untrimm'd; But thy eternal summer shall not fade, nor lose possession of that fair thou owest; Nor shall Death brag thou wander'st in his shade, when in eternal lines to time thou growest; So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see, so long lives this, and this gives life to thee._"

He bowed deeply as he finished and Kyle, giggling like a madwoman, clapped. In the time that it had taken for Dave to belt out that sonnet his best friend had found socks, a miniskirt, her favorite Black Widow tee, and pulled them all on. "There. Did you buy that? Now get some fucking shoes on, bitch, chop-chop." And he chucked yet another pillow at her for good measure.

"Fucking _Shakespeare_? Really?" she was giggling while she busted his balls, though. And opening the chifforobe (Dave secretly called it the "shrine") that contained her shoes. Well, a good fraction of them, at least. He fought down the urge to smirk; oh yes, he fucking owned her. "Sometimes, I think you're gay, Davey."

Dave stuck his tongue out at her but shrugged. "Really, quoting Sonnet Eighteen is what outed me? _Not_ the time you walked in on me fucking Todd Holston in our old kitchen?"

"Nah that could just have been Greek wrestling." Kyle plopped onto the little sofa that was nestled against the end of her bed a pair of boots in hand. She wrinkled her nose at him before she started to pull said boots on. "By the way, thank you for reminding me about that. Nothing makes me hungrier in the morning than the image of sweaty, grunting _you_ making a twink cream all over the fucking breakfast bar."

"Get the fuck off your high horse, little miss answers-her-phone-while-getting-eaten-out."

"Hey, you should just feel honored that I _care_ enough about you to recognize your ringtone, worry, and grab the phone when an orgasm is impending, dick."

The retort forming in Dave's throat dried up when he scowled at his best friend and really noticed the boots she was currently zipping up.

"Heels?" he more demanded than asked. Dave felt his left eyebrow disappearing into his hairline. "You're wearing heels?"

Kyle snorted without looking up. "Oh dear, Captain Obvious is on the scene."

Ignoring the taunt Dave walked over and nudged her suede covered ankle with the toe of his boot. "You hate heels." It came out as an accusation, especially since he'd narrowed his eyes on her. "_Hate_."

"That is completely untrue," Kyle said, still not meeting his gaze. She wiggled her right leg a bit, checking the feel of the boot before pulling its mate on. "Heels are lovely. They're gorgeous and they emphasize that my legs, though certainly full in shape, are also nice and long."

Dave rolled his eyes. "Which is why you wear them so often, right?"

The left's zipper slid up into place and Kyle wiggled that leg as well. "I never said that they were nice to _wear_, Athos, I said that they looked nice." She held her hand out and Dave automatically took it, helping her to stand. Kyle kissed his cheek as a thank-you then backed away, testing the shoes (in all likely cases this was her first time wearing them outside of the store) with a few cautious steps. Once she was sure of her footing Kyle twirled once to show-off and then crossed to her vanity one last time to grab up something for her hair.

"They make you cranky you walk around in them for long," Dave pointed out as his BFF wound her dark, wavy hair up into a low, messy chignon. "_Very_ cranky."

Kyle smirked at him in the mirror. "Yes, well, I suppose _someone_ shouldn't have mentioned how I only ever wear '_like five pairs_' of shoes." Her voice dipped about six octaves to imitate his deeper tone; and not _well_, either, if he were asked about it. "It's almost like that unnamed person _didn't_ know I was an pigheaded smart-ass with dare complex. Silly them, that's just _asking_ me to put on pretty shoes and torment them all day in proportion to how much my feet hurt."

Dave groaned. "Oh come on! Shoe shopping with you itself isn't enough of a punishment here? You have to add in _bitchy-regretful-Kyle_?" He glared at Kyle and resisted (quite admirably) the urge to kick her right in the back of the knee so she'd topple over in those stupid boots. "I do _not_ like this game, Porthos."

"It's not a game, it's a lesson," Kyle said. "Don't bitch about my shoes. If I want to hoard I'm gonna hoard. Now come on." She turned from the vanity and grabbed her messenger bag from the top of the dresser. "Let's go. Appetite's back and I want some of Rudy's pancakes."

Shrugging on his coat that had been lying on end of Kyle's footboard for the last half-hour, Dave somehow managed to resist the impulse to kick Kyle yet again. Instead he found a much more appropriate form of vengeance. With a smile he plucked Kyle's jacket from her grasp and held it for her like a good, gentlemanly, best friend would. She suspected nothing, which made it all the more sweet for him when he wrapped an arm around her shoulders and countered her "lesson" as hard as he could.

"Hey, you know what pancakes remind me of?" he asked as they started down the stairs. Kyle glanced at him through the corner of her eye and Dave got the satisfaction of seeing a glint of apprehension light them before he gave her the proverbial kick-to-the-cunt. "The time I had Jude in handcuffs in the utility closet and you walked in on that rim job I was giving him. Didn't he come like _right_ as you opened the door?"

Kyle stopped dead in her tracks on the stairs and Dave—cackling—withdrew his arm and practically skipped down them. He looked back, taking in the apoplectic way in which his best friend's right eye was twitching with pride.

"You _son of a bitch_," she growled. "I finally had that repressed!"

"I have yet to see semen shoot that far again." Dave really couldn't resist making rubbing it in. Kyle looked queasy _so_ rarely, he needed to enjoy it while it lasted. "That was a nice sweater; did you ever get the stain out once the hysterical blindness cleared? I just _can't_ remember."

"You're a bastard."

"Now, now, behave or no pancakes for _you_, missy." Dave wagged his finger at her and "tut-tutted" for good measure.

"Fuck you, you _know_ I can't eat now," she said, finally moving down the stairs again. Kyle glared at him as he held the kitchen-to-garage door open for her. "I'm _gonna_ get you back, asshole."

"S'okay," he told her, almost sweetly as he locked the door and punched in the security code. "I have other sexploits to remind you of. Hell, I think there _may_ be a few video clips I can use to help illustrate."

Yes, Dave could very much understand why people sometimes thought he and Kyle were a couple. They were constantly at war and driving one another insane on a daily basis. Unlike those other poor souls, though, Dave never questioned his better half's fidelity or if they would always be together. Kyle was the one person that Dave knew was with him one-hundred-percent, always at his back, always ready to hold his hand and the first in line to bust his balls. That was the way it would be until death hit them square in the face. Because, as Kyle had pointed out once or twice, they were probably going to end up killing each other. And the journey to those bizarre, headline worthy obituaries would be _really_ fucking funny.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

"All right. The Fryes or Docs?" Kyle asked Kurt, holding up two pairs of boots that, for all _Dave_ could tell, were exactly same.

He didn't get it. He couldn't even pretend to get it. Not just the enthusiasm Kyle and Kurt had as they looked at overpriced piles of leather but what about said piles flipped a switch in his best friend. One minute Dave was standing by his partner in crime of nearly ten and the next there was some overexcited _girl_ wearing her face at his side, gushing about something called a "peep-toe". It was a little bit terrifying, to tell the truth.

As much Shoe-Hoarding Kyle (in his head that sounded _so_ much like a fucked up friend of Barbie) unnerved him, though, Dave couldn't say that things had been bad. Surprisingly he might just call it good. They'd had breakfast with Kurt and Noah at Rudy's before Kyle started Kurt's tour of the West Haven shopping district. As a whole it was more fun that Dave had initially believed possible. Perhaps because the company made things extra entertaining.

Noah's drive to beat Kyle at something and earn a hug had not been dampened by five days' worth of thinking and he was itching for a rematch. At just about anything. At breakfast he challenged her to see who could finish their pancakes first. Kyle won and Noah paid the bill. He tried again when they disagreed on the number of Rolling Stones albums made in the 70s while inside some home furnishings boutique. Kyle won again and Noah's punishment was really just the shame of being a guitarist and getting that wrong. The final—and most entertaining—owning came inside Game Stop when Kyle obliterated Noah's score on a racing demo after he had erroneously called her "baby" again. Kyle's reward there had simply been Noah grudgingly admitting her superiority amidst a cluster of gawking nerds. Though his latest defeat had Noah quietly sulking as their group continued on through West Haven, Dave was pretty confident that the other man wasn't done for the day.

Kurt seemed less amused by his best friend's antics than Dave did but then Kurt had been fairly quiet all morning aside from pleasantries and shopping related chatter with Kyle. For a few stomach-turning moments Dave had thought the lack of talking was due to Kurt being uneasy around him. Most of that dissolved (Dave couldn't say just when he _wouldn't_ feel like there were a few eggshells to be careful of around Kurt), though, when Noah teased Kurt about being up until almost three in the morning. For his part Kurt had given the standard flippant reply but his heart just didn't seem to be in it. That, more than the shades Kurt wore, convinced Dave that the smaller man was indeed just tired. Still, there was something off between them, subtle enough to just barely tickle at the back of Dave's head and every now and again he felt like those mirrored sunglasses might be hiding a pair of blue-green eyes as they watched him.

Dave let all of his worries, for the moment, go, however. He'd spent a lot of his life making issues where there were none and he absolutely _refused_ to let any lingering insecurities bother him now. Especially when there was Kyle and her over-protectiveness to consider.

For the moment though, and in spite of the four-inch heels, Dave's best friend was being quite amiable. He liked to believe it was because she loved him but Dave wasn't silly enough not to factor in a shopping buzz that was keeping Kyle so cheerful. He preferred to focus on the first reason, though.

"They're the exact same shoe," Noah quipped from his place, leaning against a structural pillar that congested the boots section of the West Have Shoe Outlet. Like Dave the look on his face belayed the fact that he just did _not_ understand what was to be excited about here. _Unlike_ Dave he was showing his lack of enthusiasm rather than playing a quiet game of "Rocket Piggy" on his cell. Well, quiet-_ish_; Dave tended to swear a lot under his breath when he failed to steer his pudgy little avatar away from the asteroids in time. And since he collided with one right before Noah opened his mouth, Dave gave up on defeating his high score and shut off his BlackBerry for the time being. By the aggravated face that Kyle and Kurt shared, he was _pretty_ sure that the upcoming lecture Noah was about to receive would be more entertaining than weaving digital pork through space rocks.

"Dude just…Gah —_No_!" Kyle face-palmed and shook her head. Her eyes darted to Kurt. "He's yours so I feel obligated to ask before I kick him but—_can I kick him_?"

"_Kyle_." Dave leveled his sternest gaze on her. She jumped a little bit, in all likely cases from forgetting he was there since he hadn't said a word while since they'd come into the store half an hour ago. Kyle's surprise faded quickly, however, and she pushed her chin out at him like some insolent three-year-old; her quiet way of saying that Dave wasn't the boss of her and she could kick whomever she chose.

"You know, as much as I _agree_ with the sentiment," Kurt interjected, a touch nervously, "I don't think he's earned a beating." He patted Kyle's shoulder in commiseration while throwing a frown at his best friend.

Noah, though, didn't seem to know how _not_ to touch the electrified fence and threw up his hands. "_What_? They're exactly alike." He pointed accusingly at the boot dangling by its laces from Kyle's left hand. "That one's just mud brown while the other's like…_dried dirt_ brown."

Kurt's eyes were still hidden behind his sunglasses but it was still obvious to Dave, and to everyone else, that they were rolling. He looked at Kyle. "Okay. I'm rethinking that kicking thing."

For a second or two Kyle looked like she was actually contemplating the best way to plant the ball of her foot into Noah's midsection. Dave cleared his throat, though, and, while she made another face at him and flipped him off, all ideas of physical violence dissipated from Kyle's face.

That was another thing Dave could hate about shoe shopping: it made Kyle twice as defensive and she was already _way_ too much of that.

"Okay, look, dummy." Kyle had gotten off of the kicking idea but was clearly not done with Noah. She held up the boot clutched in her right fist. "This is a Frye lace-up engineer boot. And this," she held up the darker one in her left, "is a Doc Marten 20 eyelet. Note the slimmer, more flexible sole on the Frye. The longer toe. Docs are—are—"

"Iconic," Kurt threw in helpfully. There was a small smile playing on his lips suggesting that he was really enjoying how wide-eyed Kyle's lecture had Noah.

"Iconic. Yes, that's the one." Kyle paused and smiled—genuinely smiled—at Kurt. "Thanks, Cutie."

Kurt shrugged nonchalantly but still looked very pleased. "Anytime."

"Anyway," she rounded back on Noah so quickly he jumped. "_They are not the same thing_. And also? Rust—" Kyle gestured with the Frye. Or at least Dave thought it was the Frye, he couldn't remember which hand was holding which boot anymore. Actually, he couldn't remember most of her tirade; Dave did not give a fuck about shoes "iconic or" not.

"—and Sienna." The Doc (again Dave was guessing) was held up. "Come on. Just because _I_ draw, ink and paint for a living doesn't mean _you_ can't be more creative than 'mud' and 'dried-dirt'." And she whirled around, motioning for Kurt to follow her further down the aisle. Kurt went along with it, shaking his head at a dumbstruck looking Noah as he did.

"Wow," Dave chuckled, finding a particular joy in Noah's wide-eyed expression. "You're not gonna do that again, huh?"

Noah's slack-jaw morphed into a grin as he stared after Kyle. "I dunno, man. Your girl's kinda hot when she rants." There was a pause, where Dave was almost positive Noah's eyes were tracing the curve of Kyle's ass, before flicking to him. "So, what else pisses her off? She got a favorite band I can call crap?"

Dave shook his head and told the other man, "You've got issues." Very briefly, it occurred to him that most best friends would be more concerned with a guy trying so blatantly to get into Kyle's pants and, if they weren't, they _probably_ wouldn't find it so damn funny. There was very little "most" about either himself or Kyle, though, so Dave let himself laugh.

"_What_?" Noah said. "She's a nice looking lady; s'all I'm saying. Especially when her eyes are all…I dunno…_hellfire-y_?"

"Not disagreeing," Dave said. "I wouldn't piss her off too much, though. If she kicks she _won't_ be aiming for your shins." He laughed again at the apprehension that crossed Noah's face when those words sank in and took his BlackBerry back out. As he turned, intending to slowly wander down to where Kyle and Kurt where focused on a new pair of shoes, Dave hit the "Rocket Piggy" app. "Oh," he called over his shoulder as an afterthought, "and her favorite band is Garbage. Careful with what you say about Manson, she had a pretty serious girl-crush on her during college."

Noah did _not_ say anything about Shirley Manson in an attempt to annoy Kyle. In fact he didn't speak much the rest of the time that they were in the shoe store. For all his talk, the guitarist seemed to have learned to mimic Dave and play on his phone until Kurt and Kyle were finally done. Consequently, both Kurt and Kyle had bought Frye boots, or at least what Dave thought were Frye boots. She was taken enough with them to switch her suede heels out as they took a break in the coffee shop next door.

Dave didn't even bother stifling his chuckle. Kyle's cobalt eyes were sharp as she looked up from lacing her new boots. "Shut up! I'm breaking them in!" she defended herself.

"I didn't say _anything_," Dave replied sweetly. "How do your arches feel, though? Little bit strained?"

The snarky retort Kyle opened her mouth to toss his way was interrupted by Noah who leaned over from the seat on Kyle's right to grab one of her discarded boots. Like Dave, his best friend seemed surprised by the way Noah had flipped it over to examine the sole, so she didn't say anything. He prodded the heel before tossing it back down to where Kyle had previously laid it.

"That's not that bad," Noah said dismissively, as if he was suddenly an expert on heels. Dave had obviously been wrong about him learning a lesson. Clearly Noah _wanted_ to Kyle's foot to slam into him.

"_Excuse_ me?" Kyle demanded after several tense seconds of staring at Noah in disbelief.

Kurt's best friend shrugged and took a drink of his coffee. "Those aren't that bad."

"I'm sorry," Kyle said. "But did the guy who can't tell Docs from Fryes just make a comment about high heels?" She crossed her arms and raised a dangerous eyebrow.

Dave glanced at Kurt, wondering if he was going to slap a hand over his best friend's mouth before his grave was completely dug. While there was no reading Kurt's face with those big shades on and his drink at his lips his posture certainly didn't _appear_ too tense. He thought that was unwise but if Kurt wasn't advising Noah to stop then far be it for Dave to step in and do so.

Noah shrugged again. "Look, I can have an opinion. And _all_ I'm saying is that those don't look all that painful."

"Oh really?"

"Yeah. Really." He took another sip of coffee and grinned at Kyle. "_Really_-really."

There were several more very tense moments where Kyle's narrowed eyes held Noah's grinning face and Dave made ready to grab her should she snap. Instead of leaping up and punching Noah, though, Kyle returned his grin with a cyanide-tinted smirk. She grabbed her suede boots and tossed them into Noah's lap.

"Money where your mouth is, Princess." It was more of an order than anything, not that Noah seemed to mind, since he was still smiling. "If they aren't that bad you should be able to walk around in them, right?"

Noah looked between the boots and Kyle, as if debating before he finally asked, "How far?"

"To the door, to the bar then back to the table," Kyle said. "I'll take some pity on you since those clearly aren't your size. You fall you lose."

"What am I losing exactly?" Noah asked.

"Aside from my respect? Chest to chest contact, full ten seconds."

Noah didn't even hesitate in sticking out his hand for Kyle to shake. "Deal." And without another word he toed off his Skechers and began the struggle to slide on Kyle's boots.

Dave shot another glance at Kurt who noticed this time around and offered him half-hearted shrug. His wordless way of saying that if his best friend was dumb enough to do something he couldn't talk him out of it. Not to mention he was too used to this sort of thing to even care anymore.

"Fair enough," he murmured and leaned back in his chair to enjoy the show and his espresso.

Meanwhile Noah had managed to somehow shove his feet into Kyle's size eight shoes and was very slowly, with the help of their table, standing. If Dave were a betting man—which he was not outside of Vegas, of course—then he would be putting his money on Noah toppling over before he reached the door. He just hoped that the guy didn't seriously hurt himself when he hit the floor; the memory of Kyle dislocating her talus in a pair of aptly named ankle-breakers surfaced and Dave couldn't help but shiver.

But Noah surprised him. His gait was very off and he looked _highly_ uncomfortable, true enough, but after a few experimental steps with his chair to help steady things, Noah got his balance almost perfect. By the time he'd made it from the door and was starting for the bar he was _strutting_. A positively smug smile covered his face and he winked at the barista and the few other patrons paying him attention. In the home stretch, maybe five or six feet from their table, Noah wobbled and Dave was sure that he was going to meet the cement with a smack. At the last possible moment, however, he jerked his body up—he even fucking _spun_—put one foot in front of the other and then tossed himself into his chair.

"See?" Noah's grin was a mile wide as looked he reached for his latte. He winked at Kyle, who (like Dave) was staring at him openmouthed. "Not that bad. Well, okay, they're fucking _awful_." Noah's arrogance melted into pure frustration as he rushed to get the boots off. He rubbed his instep once they'd been kicked away and made a face at Kyle. "Tell me why? _Why _do women wear those things? Ugh!"

"Oh come on," Kurt spoke up for the first time since all this mess had begun. Dave noted a mischievous curl to his lips when he turned to look at the smaller man. "Those are what, four inches at best? Please, those heels are nowhere near as thin or as high as the ones you wore for Velvet Goldmine Night in Brussels."

Kyle's face _finally_ unfroze as Dave started to laugh, an oddly high-pitched "What?" cracking the air. "I—you—_what_?"

Noah shrugged, his smile undiminished by her voice—even if it _had_ made him jump. "Yeah," he spoke to Kurt though his eyes frequently switched between his best friend and Kyle. "And those were spikier too. _And_ those pleather pants and bustier chaffed like a motherfucker in the heat." He shuddered dramatically. "Fuck, don't even get me started on all that sweat and mascara that got in my eyes. It's nothing short of a miracle none of us fell off the stage."

"Well, _Finn_ was grounded at the drum kit so he couldn't go anywhere and Jules cheated since she plays barefoot no matter what. Now you, Padma, and me? Yeah, _fucking miracle_." Kurt smiled fondly, almost as if whatever he was remembering was something sweet and straight from his childhood. "The after party made up for all the soreness and nearly twisted ankles, though."

"You mean it made gave you the right kind of soreness," Noah teased.

"Damn right," Kurt said returning his best friend's wicked grin. He held up his drink and Noah butted his own Styrofoam cup against it with a _very_ somber "amen" following it.

Dave, who had been laughing for the majority of this exchange, snapped his fingers drawing their attention. "Okay, you two there are some of us at the table not in on the joke, _spill_."

"Agreed," Kyle said leaning forward on the table.

"Sorry, sorry," Kurt apologized sitting his coffee down. He exchanged one last look and giggle with Noah before licking his lips and explaining. "Okay, so basically there's been a huge wave of Glam Rock revival in Belgium for the past six or seven years. Well, in Brussels, about four years ago, they started an annual Velvet Goldmine Night at this really popular music venue in the arts district—Shit what's it called Noah?"

Noah laughed. "Seriously? You're the one who _speaks_ the local language, how do you not remember it?"

"_Noah_!" Kurt playfully slapped his best friend's shoulder.

Pushing back Noah told him, "_Ivoire Sanglant_, the place is called _Ivoire Sanglant_." His accent was, surprisingly, very good.

"Thank you," Kurt said, giving him one last nudge with his elbow before returning his attention to Dave and Kyle. "So, yeah, _Ivoire Sanglant_ hosts Velvet Goldmine Night. And _at_ Velvet Goldmine Night every band basically pulls a David Bowie and puts on their Glam face and plays their set. We," he glanced at his best friend and giggled. "_We_ got asked to open it two years ago and Noah's costume came with a pair of these scary looking spike-heel pumps _which_ he spent three days before the concert practicing in."

Dave couldn't help himself; the idea of Noah Puckerman dressed up in fake leather and heels _killed_ him. And even more so to know that he'd put effort into it. Maybe it shouldn't have—he recalled the K.I.S.S. costume from high school—but somehow that seemed distant, even alien at the moment. He could only set his espresso down and clap a hand over his mouth, trying not to look too stupid, as he laughed until his sides hurt.

"I'm sorry!" he apologized when he could finally breathe again. "Really I—in my head it's pretty much Frankenfurter with a guitar. I'm sorry."

Nicely enough, Noah didn't look remotely offended. "It's cool. Seriously. I'm not a man who can pull that look off very well. Though, I'd like to point out unlike Tim Curry _I_ wore pants with my corset. But there _were_ fishnets, I'll own that."

"Did you wear a wig too?" Kyle asked. Like Dave, she seemed to be finding this highly amusing, though her face wasn't red from laughing nor was she gasping for air. "More importantly are there _pictures_?"

Kurt shared Kyle's enthusiasm and pulled out his phone. "Honey, there are _videos_. YouTube _and_ what our tour manager took."

Kyle clapped. "Show! Show!"

"Hold it," Noah interjected as Kurt started to comply, fingers flying along the screen of his iPhone. The guitarist looked at Kyle, smirk back in place and his index finger wagging. "Videos of me nearly dying in stilettos _after_ you pay up."

When Kyle's eyebrows went up, a certain unreadable spark in her eyes while her mouth twisted into something that was neither frown nor smile. It was a look that mildly concerned Dave, though, not too much; Kyle was a lot of things but she was _not_ a person who ever welched on a bet. She was far too proud for that sort of thing and Dave's instincts were proven solid as ever (at least concerning Kyle) when she sighed, stood, and held her arms out toward Noah.

"Fine, fine, you're right," she said. "But _don't_ make this weird." Her eyes sharpened critically on Noah, halting his rise from his chair. "Your hands stay above the equator and if you pop wood your cock's meeting my kneecap and _then_ I'm gonna curb stomp you. Got me, Princess?"

Noah put his right hand over his heart. "I solemnly swear not to molest you. I'll be a perfect gentleman."

Kyle rolled her eyes. "Gentlemen is code for secret pervert; just hug me, stupid."

"Fair enough." And he did.

True to his word, Noah's hands stayed completely above board and true to _her_ word Kyle gave him the full ten count of bodily contact. She was even nice enough to let him rest his head on her shoulder and pat his back. Watching the two of them Dave might have called the exchange sort of sweet but he really just couldn't associate the word "sweet" with his BFF. Considerate, warm, and thoughtful yes, but always with a touch of sarcasm because Kyle just wouldn't be Kyle unless she was comforting a grieving mother with joke. Most likely about dicks.

"Okay, dude, time's up," Kyle told him after ten Mississippi's had been reached. She patted his back one last time before starting to pull away. She got about an arm's length out of the embrace before Noah's fingers, clenching her sleeves at the elbow, stopped her. That I-could-destroy-you gleam returned to Kyle's eyes as she looked up at him but Noah didn't let her go. Which, as far as Dave was concerned, was pretty brave. And pretty stupid.

"Are we cool?" Noah asked very seriously. "You're not…_pissed_ about me winning this, right? I totally wasn't aiming to be a dick, here."

Kyle smirked but there was no acidity in it, no mean spirit, or even a trace of trouble. It was the smile Dave knew best, that he and Jude saw most often, just a gentle, wry curve tipping up of the right side of her mouth. Again he might have called it sweet if Kyle weren't in the equation.

"Nah, we're fine, dude," she assured him with an extra pat to his forearm. "In _fact_, I'm impressed. You literally walked in my shoes _and_ tricked me. You earned your new-friend-hug, friend." When Kyle pulled back that time Noah let her go and bumped her fist when she held it up.

"Awesome," he said. "So, hey if I finally beat you at bowling can I get ten seconds of nipple?" Noah's somber attitude had melted back into normal as he returned to blatantly ogling Kyle's chest.

Kyle surprised Dave by laughing as she dropped back into her chair. "Oh, that's _good_. Didn't you just hear me? We're friends. You've been friend-zoned, Princess." Her grin was downright evil as it fell on Noah. "And friends don't get a peep show."

As Noah grimaced Dave _really_ couldn't resist jumping in. "_That's_ not actually true, Porthos, and you know it," he reminded Kyle. "_How_ many times have I played bra-helper?"

Kurt giggled as Noah's jaw dropped. "Yeah, but you don't count," Kyle said with a dismissive wave of her hand. "We both know you don't enjoy it."

"True," Dave conceded, wondering if it was all right to be enjoying Noah's speechlessness so much. "I prefer your tits covered by a sweater so I can sleep on them."

"What do they look like?" Noah demanded once his voice returned. His eyes darted like pin balls between Kyle's breasts and Dave. He leaned across the table so that he was less than a foot from Dave's face. His pupils were tiny points of black in a mass of feldgrau edged brown.

"Think seventies porn star," Dave told him, somehow managing a straight face. "They sag but then they're perky at the same time, which, aesthetically, I'm impressed by."

"Aw, that's the nicest description I've ever heard about my boobs," Kyle said, playing along. "I love you, Athos."

"Well, I have a BFA in English Lit, if I can't find classy new ways to describe tits then what the fuck am I doing with my life?" he asked reaching over to squeeze Kyle's hand. "Love you too, Porthos."

Further torture was interrupted by a loud "THUMP" and everyone simultaneously whipped their heads towards Kurt's chair only to find he wasn't in it. Kurt had landed on the floor, somewhat gracefully, and currently had his face buried in his knees, sunglasses clutched in one hand as his whole body shook with muffled hiccups of laughter. Briefly, Dave wondered if every meeting he had with Kurt would have moments where the smaller man ended up on the ground.

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They left the coffee shop shortly after Kurt laughed himself out of his chair. Partially because there were a few other places Kyle still wanted to hit before they called it a day and got late lunch/obscenely early dinner. The fact that the other patrons had openly started to watch their table factored in too and it wasn't like Dave could blame them.

From the coffee shop they went to some local bath and body knockoff Kyle really liked. Dave didn't hate the place, considering that most of the stuff he himself used came from there (via him letting Kyle pick out everything) but picking out bath salts wasn't really an invigorating task for him. After spending almost an hour there and Kyle buying a couple bags of debatable necessities, their group wandered through one more clothing store and finished up the shopping trip at Kyle's favorite art supply store so she could pick up _actual_ necessities.

"Okay," Kyle said after her fuckton (Dave's word) of paint, canvases, and brushes had been paid for. "Since the truck's eight blocks away and I don't want to carry any of this crap that far," she rustled one of the new bags, "why don't I just leave you guys with the haul? I'll go grab the truck, drive it over, we'll pack, and then grab dinner."

"You're being awfully nice," Dave teased. He cocked his head to the side and gave his best friend a playfully suspicious onceover. "Who are you and where's _my_ Kyle?"

Kyle stuck out her tongue. "Lying in a ditch in near the Woodmont irrigation canals, covered in quicklime. Miss her?"

"Not really."

"Didn't think so." Kyle put her art supply bags down beside the storefront bench which their group currently stood in front of. "Right, you ladies wait here and I will be back shortly." She fished her gloves out of her coat pocket and pulled them on, already heading for the door.

"Hold on, I go with," Noah said dumping his bags and jogging after her. He grinned at Kyle when she paused to glance back at him. "Hey, come on, it's good manners to walk a lady to her car! There are ruffians and shit out there."

"Dude, I have eight brothers," she told him with a roll of her eyes. "_Eight_. 'Lady' for me only classifies my reproductive bits. The last 'ruffian' who tried anything with me is probably still drinking from a straw."

Noah was unfazed by Kyle's bitchy tirade and countered swiftly. "Look, if we're going to be friends you have to stop trying to give me a boner, Baby." He was punched in the arm for adding 'baby' on but since Kyle was laughing when she did it, Dave decided he shouldn't worry. Especially when Noah punched back; if nothing else he really had won the her respect.

"There's a nerve between the back of my left eye and the base of my spine that's just on _fire_ right now," Kurt murmured as they watched their respective best friends disappear from the store's range of view. "Why is that?"

"Because you have common sense. Don't worry though; she won't ditch us when we have hostages." Plunking the bags he'd been carrying down alongside the others Dave settled on the bench. He tipped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes; this shopping excursion hadn't been pure hell but Dave was more than all right with it coming to an end.

Of course now he wasn't sure if he would be seeing Kurt again.

That thought sprinted through his head and Dave's eyes opened. He glanced at the other man who was five or so feet away, shifting awkwardly about on his feet. Kurt stood facing an old-fashioned gumball machine, the kind with showy, crazy-slide display that the gumballs raced down when you turned a quarter over, as if he was debating on putting money into it. His shades were back on but even though Dave couldn't see those blue-green eyes he still _felt_ them on him again.

Something about that, about being watched by Kurt, studied by Kurt and so furtively too made Dave feel warm. Not that sentimental crap, not the cheesy fire-in-his-veins lust; though, he could totally admit Kurt looked extra of fuckable that day in his tight jeans and too-big sweater. That was a _completely_ objective observation, though—or so he told himself when his jeans became just a little uncomfortable and had to chase it with thoughts of bra shopping with Kyle.

Honestly, Dave wasn't sure how to describe the prickling heat just beneath his skin when he felt Kurt watching him. He couldn't call it comfortable, he couldn't really classify it as _un_comfortable, and he couldn't just dismiss it either. It was an effervescent nothing hanging strange and tense and thick in the air, a moist fog that slid into his lungs and created a damp weight in the middle of his body.

Dave didn't want to make anything weird between he and Kurt but he had to confront this empty, potent fizzle before the subcutaneous itch it started made him a little crazy.

"Do you, um…need a quarter?" he asked, doing his best to sound indifferent rather than awkward tinged with anxiousness. It didn't work but Kurt probably didn't notice since he jumped when Dave spoke.

There was an unmistakable rosy stain bleeding into the paleness of Kurt's skin as he turned toward Dave, one that neither bulky designer sunglasses nor high collared coat could hide. He crossed his arms and shook his head. "No, no. I was just…looking. Or thinking, really." Kurt laughed a little, the sound hollow with nervousness and—Dave thought—something very worn.

Dave tried to smile but he wasn't sure it was coming off so well. It was no scowl but he probably looked constipated rather than amiable. Since Kurt went back to looking away, or pretending to look away, Dave was going to say that the other man wasn't particularly noticing.

"Dude, sit down," he implored waving a hand at the other end of the bench. "You've been on your feet most of the day and the way you're swaying's making me nervous." He _forced_ his mouth to curl upwards into real smile when Kurt balked, biting his lower lip. "Come on, Noah seems cool with me and all but I guarantee if you fall over and crack your head he's _not_ going to believe I didn't try and kill you. Then Kyle will kill him and she'll go to prison and _I'll_ eventually be destitute because the only person who understands my rambling panel notes will be unreachable. So do us both a favor, huh?"

Kurt laughed at that, temporarily puncturing the tension. "Can't argue with that logic, can I?" he joked, nudging a bag out of his way so he could sit. Gracefully Kurt folded one leg beneath him as he settled on the red lacquered planks, his body leaning into the bench's wrought iron arm. Away from Dave. When Kurt's head dipped down, as if he was staring at his lap—though Dave knew he was not—Dave really couldn't stop himself from speaking.

"Is everything okay?" For a second time Kurt jumped at Dave's voice. A very reasonable part of his brain told Dave that he probably shouldn't be asking that or, more specifically, he didn't have the right to. But the other option was pretending that he was okay with this strange vibe that had been rolling between he and Kurt all day. Dave didn't pretend anymore. Not consciously at least. So he cleared his throat and pressed on.

"Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe I'm just being sensitive, I don't know." He met Kurt's gaze squarely through those dark lenses. "This is like the second time we've seen each other in ten years, I didn't really know you when we were kids and I can't say I really know you now. So if I'm being paranoid and weird, I'm sorry. I really am. I'm not—I _hope_ I'm not that kind of idiot." Dave paused, taking a breath and searching Kurt's face, at least the portion visible to him, for affirmation that he was being stupid. By the soft way the other man's lips had parted, a little taken aback but not incredulous, Dave surmised Kurt didn't find any fault with his words.

He continued, "I'd really like to know what's wrong, Kurt. Something about you has been off all day. Or, I mean something about you that feels like it's about me. You're wearing those big glasses and hiding it really well but I've felt you glancing at me all day. And—and if I've done something wrong or I said something stupid I'm sorry but I kind of wish you'd just go ahead and tell me."

Kurt's reaction to Dave's words came fairly close behind them, but still the space between dragged on from Dave's perspective for a fucking eternity. That damp heavy hollow in his center curled into itself, condensing into miasma that wanted to implode and explode all at once. The blankness of Kurt's face, the lack of his expressive eyes to give him away at once was maddening. A new apology was already being woven in the nerves of Dave's brain when Kurt laughed less than a second after Dave had spoken.

It was sort of mirthless but not bad just, like so many he'd shared with Dave already, something saturated with relief. The vapor curling in Dave's chest didn't disappear but it became much lighter immediately. He almost sighed in relief himself.

"Just, for the record, I'd really like to say how nice it is to know what has _not_ improved about me since I was a kid," Kurt said. A half-smile played on his face while he rubbed his forehead. "Couldn't be inconspicuous _then_, obviously worse at it _now_." He chuckled removed his sunglasses.

Before, when Kurt fell out of his chair in the coffee shop, laughing so hard that he was crying, Dave really hadn't gotten a good like at Kurt's uncovered face. He'd been laughing himself and Kurt had shoved the things back on after wiping his eyes. Now, though, Dave couldn't miss the dark circles beneath them or the puffiness of the lids. They were slightly bloodshot and tired leaving no doubt that Kurt really hadn't had a restful night.

"I'm sorry," Kurt told him. "And you're not stupid. You _can't_ be stupid when you're that perceptive and you barely know me. I just…" The other man trailed off, weary eyes shifting downward as if to say he couldn't find the right words for this. His brain couldn't form them or perhaps they choked his voice. It worried Dave, _a lot_, but he didn't know what to say to that unformed idea Kurt needed to convey. He didn't even have a generic non-answer backup that could help.

Luckily all of that didn't matter when Kurt's explanation came direct and nonverbally in the form of him pulling a thin book out of his messenger back.

Dave could actually feel color draining from his face as he looked down at Skin held out by Kurt's thin white hand. His feelings toward the book itself were distant, almost alien. He had poured so much of himself into the pages, so much of his trauma, anger, and just all the festering incongruities in his soul that, when he finished, he really _had_ felt like a different person.

It had been written solely for catharsis, to try and purge some of his self-hatred. That had worked, somewhat, and publishing it had never even occurred to Dave. But after he had mistakenly transferred it onto a flash drive and given it over to Annabeth he got no peace about it. In the end it was Kyle's gentle suggestion about how it might just help other kids who were like him at that age that swayed Dave. Being able to defer all royalties to the Youth In Crisis centers and make Annabeth froth at the mouth was, admittedly, an added bonus.

Never had it occurred to Dave that Kurt might read it. Not once had the scenario run through his head. Dave had dedicated the book to him because he had no other feasible way to make amends but he had never thought that Kurt would read it. He had never imagined Kurt sitting down with Skin and seeing all of Dave's sick and warped feelings through that messy November. And it certainly never occurred to him that he and Kurt would ever discuss it.

"Oh fuck." It really summed up the astonishment and nausea ripping through Dave like a little hurricane as Kurt held that book out. A million apologies, all of them so inadequate to Dave, began tumbling through his head, vying so ferociously for space on his tongue that nothing came out. "Oh fuck" was all that Dave could muster. However, when he looked up he realized that might be for the best.

"Did you really feel like this?" There was hot saltwater glistening in Kurt's already puffy eyes, telling Dave what had kept him up so late.

Dave really wanted to lie but his brain, once all of those broken apologies fizzled away, was just too tired to give him that. And, he knew, he owed Kurt more than that. "Yeah." The word came out cracked and raspy and it seemed to hit Kurt like a fist.

"Shit." The tears started rolling down Kurt's cheeks, burning pink trails as they went. Dave's stomach rolled and his chest clenched so hard he thought his heart stopped for a moment. In the depths of those big blue-green eyes there was a spark of something too close to the fear Dave had put there ten years ago.

"Kurt, Jesus I'm so—" Dave's apology ended with an "oomph" when Kurt's upper body smashed into his. The force of that smaller body rammed Dave back hard enough to knock his head against the wall. It hurt, not unbearably so, and he highly doubted it would leave a mark but it still seemed insane that Kurt could have all the force of a mac truck. At least not when he was just hugging Dave.

"Don't," Kurt ordered after a few moments of leaking into the collar of Dave's coat and shirt. "Don't you _ever_ fucking apologize." His voice was oddly steady for someone who seemed to be losing a liter of fluid by the second. "Not for that and not again for the bullshit when we were kids, okay?"

Since Dave couldn't form any proper response to that utilizing the English language, he started to pat Kurt's back. He couldn't even tell himself if that was an agreement or just a nervous gesture, perhaps both, but Kurt seemed to accept it. The smaller man's arms slid from clenching the fabric of his coat until they circled Dave's torso. Those thin arms were iron, compressing Dave so that he could barely breath. Briefly, Dave's addled brain returned to the idea that Kurt just might be a fucking warlock because he should _not_ be that strong.

"I never thought you were a monster, Dave," Kurt's voice was completely clear despite, or maybe because of, his face being pressed into Dave's collar. His breath hitched a little at those words, though, that could have been just a side effect caused by the stranglehold Kurt had on his ribs. "I'm not saying that you weren't a asshole because you _were_, you were a _big_ fucking asshole. And I really, really, _really_ wish that I'd been brave enough to just punch you in the face. I think getting knocked out would have been worth it. But I just…"

Kurt raised his head up enough to meet Dave's eyes. They were full of fire and some strange, unshakable determination. A lump formed in the back of Dave's throat and twisted the nerves and muscles leading up to his eyes while his blood decided to run cold. Kurt's eyes burned like that had in that locker room.

"You were an angry fucked up kid, Dave, and what you did was awful. But even when everything was fucking _black_ between us, even when I didn't know it, I didn't hate you. And I am _so_ fucking glad that you didn't throw the towel in and put a shotgun in your mouth like the version of you in that book did."

Dave wasn't consciously aware of crying until the sleeve of Kurt's sweater started to dab at his cheeks. Strangely, he didn't feel weak because of the tears. Maybe Kurt's own crying had just set him at ease but the more likely reason—that voice, the one that sounded like Kyle, whispered at the back of Dave's head—was that he just needed it.

"You say 'fuck' a lot when you're upset," he told Kurt. It was the only clear thought he could grasp in his tired, oddly relieved brain. "I mean _a lot_."

Kurt laughed, real throaty, exuberant laughter as he pulled his hand back from Dave's now mostly dry face and mopped at his own. Everything suddenly felt so different between them, so relaxed. The elephant Dave hadn't even realized stood in the room had been shot in the head and its demise made every particle of that disquieting haze evaporate. It was a sensation comparable to the flood of relief that had hit him when Dave had finally given Kurt that face-to-face apology he'd stored for ten years. It wasn't quite the same; that had been the assuagement of his guilt. That phenomenally strange thing going on between Kurt and he currently? It was liberation; it was the past dying so that Dave Karofsky the writer could sit with Kurt Hummel the frontman. It was no longer Dave Karofsky the former indescribably fucked up kid awkwardly occupying the same space with Kurt Hummel the former victim of said indescribably fucked up kid. Actually, maybe they were more than that now, maybe they were friends.

"_And_ you're crazy strong," he added, somehow unable to stop his inner monologue. He didn't care though and Kurt didn't seem to either. "I can feel the bruises setting in, no kidding."

"Yes, well _you're_ very inarticulate when you're upset," Kurt replied. He slid away from Dave and pulled both of his feet up onto the seat, resting his chin on his knees as he looked at Dave. "That seems terribly inappropriate for a writer of your caliber."

Dave shrugged. "Sitting down and organizing some thoughts for hours on end isn't the same as having them ready to spout out on a whim."

"Got me there," Kurt said. He laughed again and Dave was warmed by the sound. "Wow, I spent all day trying to figure out how to bring that up. Not saying it was easy but _wow_, feels better."

"It does. And thanks for not beating the shit out of me for the rapey undertones in there." He flipped the book back toward Kurt who caught it and made a face at the cover.

"I wouldn't have called them 'rapey'. Troubled-teen-hormonal-Molotov-cocktail fits better, I think. But I can't bring myself to be super outraged by that when I had a really graphic/messed up dream about making you admit you were gay once." Kurt's cheeks pinked, just a little but he shrugged. "My subconscious fell off of its high horse awhile ago."

Somehow Dave found that funny. Hysterically funny and he spent what felt like forever, he couldn't tell since his sides were already sore, laughing until he almost cried. Kurt, for whatever reason, perhaps a shared, latent mental illness, agreed with that.

"Wow," Dave said after he regained control of his lungs. "Wow, we should _not_ be laughing about this shit. It's—it's fucked up on a level I didn't know existed." And Dave chuckled when he said that.

"Fuck it, it's our shared trauma we'll laugh about and make inappropriate jokes about it if we want to," Kurt said.

"See? Are you listening to yourself? F-bombs all over, man."

"Shut the fuck up, Dave."

Fifteen minutes later, when Kyle and Noah pulled up to the curb in the truck, both Kurt and Dave were composed. The only thing that might give away something had changed between them were Kurt's pink eyes and lack of sunglasses. And, maybe, the way Dave riotously laughed through dinner whenever Kurt would mutter "fuck" under his breath.


	9. Allusion vs Illusion

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing about one of my favorite shows. Reviews are greatly appreciated and I hope that you enjoy this chapter.

**Author's Note:** Thank you to winterswallows for her help, guidance, and annoying way of being right.

* * *

**March 7****th****, 2013 Ithaca College, New York**

Growing up with eight brothers made Kyle very strong and lit up a spark of fierceness in her that never went away. It also had her feeling confused and sort of misplaced in her own skin for the better part of her life. Not at all unlike Dave's, her high school years had been a real train wreck. Different issues, same tendency to lash out and act like a douche; she was one almost-expulsion ahead of Dave, in fact.

Things changed drastically for Kyle, though, once she made it to Ithaca and even more once she and Dave had bonded. As she told him, on her own she felt better, like she could breathe and just focus on finding the "real" Kyle underneath the girl who always had to have her hackles up in order to deal with the flood of testosterone in her home. And a part of the act Kyle really just relished in throwing out was the love of sports she'd faked to fit in with her brothers. It was the only change Dave ever found unfortunate, because Kyle, despite how much she hated it, could quote team stats like a motherfucker. _And _also because, thanks to Jude, Dave had discovered rugby around the same time Kyle refused to acknowledge its existence.

Rugby became one of the very few things that Dave and Jude _didn't_ share with Kyle. Along with anything pertaining to math or science, talk of rugby had Kyle rolling her eyes then making quips about the resurgence of know-it-all renaissance men. All said lovingly, of course, but Kyle still made herself very scarce when her boys were having rugby time. Which, much as Dave and Jude loved her, was _far_ more preferable to listening to her snark through the game.

The little gap created by Kyle's disdain for sports became a bit of a blessing, however, around the end of November. That's when an intense match between the Saracens and Harlequins had somehow led to Jude's tongue going down Dave's throat and culminated in the punching of Dave's V-Card. From then on rugby nights were _also_ Dave and Jude's night to mess around without worry of squicking Kyle. _After_ locking the door. They had learned from the utility closet fiasco the importance of locking the door before sex. Oh _how_ they had learned.

The Scotland v. France match was a night without worry—though the door to Jude's room was locked (_they had learned_). On Thursdays Kyle was preoccupied with a block of evening classes and Jude's roommate, Patricia, only lived in their dorm on paper; her boyfriend had an apartment in town. It was just Dave, Jude, pizza, and a screen full of sweaty men running each other into the ground. In short: absolute perfection.

"You know," Jude said as the match finally wound down to a close, "This one would have been a _whole_ lot better with some Chabal in there."

Dave nearly spat out the Coke he'd just taken a drink of. He glared playfully at Jude who was curled about a foot away feigning innocence so hard that he could not possibly look guiltier if he tried.

"_What_?" Jude drawled, sliding a knee up to his chest and looping an arm around it. His plush mouth was curled upwards in a smirk and a few strands of his then shoulder-length hair had escaped their ponytail to fall into those big blue eyes. It may have just been the "my-first" goggles that Dave wore but he was sure there was nothing in the world that looked as sexy as Jude did right then. Messy hair, clunky glasses, stripy socks, oversized Sinestro Corps shirt, and plaid boxers all. In later years, even after all the men he would date and after all the pretty boys he would mess around with, that memory of Jude would never really pale for Dave.

"You say that at the end of _every_ fucking game," Dave teased.

"So not true!" Jude protested. "I did _not _say it after the Racing-Aviron Bayonnais match, sir! Nor Racing-Castres!"

"Oh, sorry, yeah! My bad. You don't complain _when_ he plays." He shook his head, eying Jude with a smirk of his own. "You know, I'm starting to think that you have a crush on _Sébastien_." Dave tried to put his most pretentious French accent on the rugby player's name, even sticking his nose into the air at the end.

Jude countered with a raspberry and a grin that lit Dave's insides up like a barbecue pit. "Oh you're just catching onto that, huh?" He darted his tongue across his lower lip, a motion he knew full well drove Dave a little crazy. His bright blue eyes sparkled, clearly noticing the hard swallow Dave had tried to hide and giggled when Dave started to flush.

"Well, come on, Dave, have you _seen_ that man? All sweaty and aggressive and—Whoa!" Jude's teasing came to an abrupt halt as Dave reached over and jerked him closer. For a split second Dave thought he was a little too forceful but when Jude laughed again and moved to straddle his lap, Dave let it go.

Dave tilted his head up to nibble the space just beneath Jude's chin. The other man (his lover, his boyfriend, Jude and he had never really put a label on their relationship) moaned and bucked his hips. Grinning against the column of Jude's throat, Dave sank his teeth (lightly) into the skin right above the pulse point and tugged. Jude's hips bucked again but Dave held them still gripping the plaid covered ass that they were attached to.

"You're making me jealous," Dave told Jude when those big blue eyes, glazed in a way he was truly enamored with, turned down to meet his own. It was a joke, of course, but only _just_ mostly; Dave couldn't say that Jude possibly desiring anyone else didn't make something in his chest tighten ever so slightly.

Jude chuckled, like he could _see_ that thing in Dave's chest, and kissed the side of his nose. "Don't be jealous." It was almost a plea. "Chabal is hot and rich but he's also straight. Not to mention his Neanderthal beard is kinda scary. Plus, he kinda has a perma-scowl going on. _You_ know how to rock the right amount of facial hair." Jude nuzzled Dave's forty-eight-hour scruff further his point. "_And_ you are just fucking adorable."

Dave couldn't help it, the reflex was automatic. A steady dark pink spread from his ears to his cheeks as Dave ducked his head down and the corners of his mouth slipped upward. The retort he was preparing for Jude completely fell to pieces when the other man leaned back just enough to crane his head down and capture his lips. At that point Dave's brain went completely numb and he couldn't process anything else that wasn't related to Jude. His taste, his smell, his weight against Dave and the wonderful heat of him had engulfed every neuron Dave had to process. Honestly? He was more than all right with that.

When they finally came up for air that thing in Dave's chest had gone away and was replaced by something…something _light_. Something positively weightless and bubbly that stretched from the pit of his stomach to the base of his throat. And yeah, even in his head that sounded so hopelessly, utterly, irredeemably cliché but that didn't change the fact that when Jude pulled back and smiled at him Dave's insides turned into San Francisco on a bad day.

And they vibrated even more when Jude whispered, "Yeah, your smile tops all of that," against his mouth, tongue prodding on the "l" and "th".

It had only been four months, give or take, since Dave had discovered what it was to be a sexual being. For years he'd been on edge over his sexuality, too terrified to even touch himself lest the images in his head should make all of those—now ridiculous seeming—fears come true. In retrospect Dave was pretty sure that was a major part of his shitty behavior not so long ago; he couldn't even escape hell to jerk one off for a minute. He had overcome so much of that though—his fear, his stigma, and a good portion of his self-loathing—thanks in no small part to the man in his lap. Kyle had thrown the lifeline and gave Dave the strength to stand but Jude showed him what living was.

Every cell in Dave's body thrummed with energy as he pulled Jude close, hands clutching and grasping and sliding all over that thin frame as they kissed again. Jude felt like a battery, fisting his hair and slipping soft wet noises across Dave's palette, each tiny movement offering a charge. It was terrifying and beautiful and necessary all rolled together then blasted apart so that Dave had to desperately sift the wreckage for something to ground him before it happened again.

"_Please. Please. Please. God. Fuck, Dave_!" Jude seemed incapable of anything beyond gibberish when Dave's mouth drifted away to explore his neck. Dave suckled at the pale, round protrusion of Jude's Adam's apple making him choke and grind down. Jude's cock was hard. Painfully hard and helpless beneath the barrier of his boxers. At nineteen all it took was _feeling_ that slight brush of Jude's erection and Dave had the same problem in less than a second.

"Holy shit." Dave buried his face in the juncture of Jude's shoulder and neck. The fabric of his once comfy lounge pants might as well have been steel wool. "Fuck. _Fuuuck_!"

"Yeah," Jude whispered against his temple. The short, blunt nails of his lover still managed to bite as the long fingers they were attached to gripped Dave's bicep and lower back. A sloppy kiss, sloppy enough might not even have been intended as a kiss, brushed his ear when Jude bowed his head. "We should. Now. _Please_ now."

Even if he wanted to—and there was _no way_ that Dave could foresee himself ever not wanting to—Dave couldn't deny Jude. Especially when his dick was throbbing and _really_ not when Jude begged. He could have been on fire and the sound of Jude begging would have had Dave on his knees ready to do whatever it was the other man asked.

Dave didn't say anything; his mouth was occupied with the spot below Jude's ear and his brain was too busy ordering him to get Jude's shorts off to be bothered with _words_. It was tricky and more than a little awkward but he managed to tug them down with one hand while lifting Jude up just enough with the other. Jude made a noise that, in any other situation, would have been decidedly unsexy (something between a squawk and a hiccup) as his upper half was practically thrown over Dave's shoulder. By the continuation of the weird, momentarily sexy, noise, however, Dave gathered that he didn't really mind being treated like a ragdoll.

More semi-awkwardness came in trying to pull Jude's boxers _off_. They only managed to free one leg, with much squirming and cursing, but that seemed to be enough. The moment that his right foot cleared Jude was back in Dave's lap pawing at the waist of Dave's pants like he'd forgotten how his fingers worked. Part of Dave wanted to laugh at his lover's insane struggle with a drawstring but another, definitely more dominant part, just wanted the same thing to happen before important bits of him went blue. So Dave raised his hips and jerked his pants down just enough, hissing as the material scraped his cock on the way.

There was no _real_ conscious thought behind the action as Dave's right hand started to cup Jude's ass. The sensation of soft cotton morphing into warm skin was a tertiary spike on the fringe of Dave's awareness. He was too fixated on Jude's thumb sweeping over the head of his cock like he wasn't already intimately acquainted with every fold there and trying to figure out why Jude's Adam's apple always had to taste so damn good. It wasn't until his fingers slid against warmth and wetness that Dave even realized he was going that far. His index finger swirled experimentally against the pucker of Jude's anus then sank in with almost no resistance.

Dave gaped at Jude who was shivering all over; including the hand he had wrapped around Dave's shaft.

"Well _that's_ a new trick."

Jude snorted. Or rather he tried to; in his current state of arousal the sound came out more like a clipped whine. "I had almost three hours to kill once Wilson let me go. Don't you judge me."

"Never." Dave pressed a second finger to Jude's hole. It joined the first one easily and Jude howled. God, if he hadn't been hard already… "How many times?"

Jude had let go of Dave's cock in favor of holding onto his shoulders for dear life. He was trembling in earnest now, fucking _quivering_ and sweating as Dave stretched him. "T-two—oh fuck!" He mouthed a trail from the cap of Dave' shoulder up to his ear. Almost as an afterthought—though it _couldn't_ be from the sneaky tone—he added while nibbling Dave's ear, "Was thinking about you. Getting ready."

There was literally no way Dave could form a verbal response to that. Not even at his most clearheaded and thoughtful of moments, as a nineteen-year-old man (boy, fuck it, he knew he was barely more than a kid), would Dave have been able to formulate an actual, coherent rebuttal to what Jude had just told him. He suspected that he wouldn't have been able to do that ten years down the road. Luckily for Dave though, he didn't _need_ to say anything back. Nature, bless it, had prerecorded instructions implanted at the very core of his brain for these sorts of situations and they took over for him.

He pulled Jude away from his neck, tugging roughly at his long, dark hair to slam their mouths together. His tongue pried and pushed at Jude's until his lover whimpered and submitted. Jude's hands scrabbled up and down Dave's arms; like they were trying to decide what was best to hold onto until they gave up on that and the arms attached to them locked around Dave's neck. Dave tested a third finger, just to be sure, and it slid in along with the others.

Jude had a condom. Dave had no idea just _where_ the condom came from, though the logo on it touting "for her" suggested that Jude had been sifting through Kyle's naughty drawer recently. Immediate thoughts centered on just what else Jude had found in there, why he wanted to experiment with ribbed, and just where he had been keeping it the whole time they'd been making out because his t-shirt did _not_ have pockets on it. Those were all questions that would go unanswered. As soon as the pre-lubed condom had been rolled on Nature was back in control of Dave's brain and his hands were on Jude's hips, steadying the other man as positioned himself right above Dave's cock.

Honestly, Dave wasn't one for rough (at least not yet). He was for messy, spontaneous, and copious experimenting but common sense told him that the very prominent appendage between his legs wasn't something he should go sticking into things without thinking. With that much cock came that much more responsibility (Dave loathed Spidey but _loved_ that pun). His hesitance was a sane. But. Jude knew his own body and what it could do so Dave had to trust him.

"Had to" was a bit strong, though. When Jude pushed himself down onto Dave's cock and started bouncing straight away Dave did _not_ have the physical capacity to say "Hey, maybe you be a little bit careful with that". What Dave did have was the physical capacity to wind his arms around Jude, buck his hips, mutter a lot of obscenities and that was pretty much the list.

Being inside of Jude was inexpressible for Dave, no matter how many times they did this. Hot and tight were the logical descriptions but it was so much more. Every movement squeezed him in a new, wonderful way and sometimes it even hurt but _God_ it was the best kind of hurt. He wondered how Jude could fit him sometimes, how that snug little opening could take so much.

"_Shit. Fuck. God there! Don't—ah!—don't stop_!" Jude cried into Dave's neck over the strong slap of skin. His cock rubbed Dave's stomach, tickling the finer hairs that surrounded his belly button. They were pressed so tightly together Dave was almost positive he wouldn't need to start jerking him in order for Jude to come.

Dave was still a novice to sex, especially compared to Jude, but he'd proven to be a quick study. In the beginning he'd just let Jude have control of everything, laid back nervously while Jude impaled himself and did the work. But that had been four months beforehand, in the aftermath Dave had learned the right spots to suck and the best angle to pump his hips to drive Jude wild. They worked together now with Dave thrusting and Jude rolling and it always seemed to get better no matter what.

"_Tight. God, you're __**so**__ tight. Fucking…Jude, you…_" His words came in broken gasps spoken into the inky black cotton covering of Jude's collarbone. "_I—fuck. You're too—I love you_."

Those last words just slipped out without Dave even thinking about them. He couldn't say they weren't true but he hadn't _meant_ for them to come out. He didn't think he was ready.

Funny thing was, that didn't seem to matter to Jude. Those three, tiny sounding words came out all hormonal and spit-slick and suddenly Jude was racing in Dave's lap. Half a dozen speedy pumps and Jude was screaming Dave's name, coming between his shirt and Dave's stomach.

Already teetering—again he was hormonal and nineteen—Dave didn't last much longer. He thrust maybe twice and then he was done for. Dave held tightly onto Jude as he pushed up one final time into that shuddering, clenching heat. _Very_ tightly, like he was half-scared that the trembling mess in his arms might not stay to squeeze him through the aftershocks.

They remained like that, collapsed against one another, for an indiscernible amount of time. It wasn't an exaggeration; eons or mere seconds could have passed in that now musky perfumed dorm room. Dave couldn't _feel_ time, hell, he probably couldn't understand the concept anymore. The whole world for Dave hinged on the shivering man he was slowly going soft inside of, his steady breathing, his heartbeat and how those seemed to have fallen in perfect sync with Dave's.

When Jude began to laugh the sound startled Dave. Half because hey, they'd just had sex and considering that Jude was the only one to ever judge his prowess it was _kind_ _of_ worrying to hear him giggling after what had felt (for Dave) like earth shattering sex. Also half because with Dave's head still pressed against Jude's clavicle the vibrations of it came through stronger and went straight into his ear.

"What?" Dave asked, tilting his head towards Jude's who had his cheek pressed to Dave's neck. The other man only laughed harder. "_What_?"

"Sorry, sorry," Jude giggled. He pulled back, wiping at sweaty forehead. Jude was sort of breathtakingly beautiful when he was freshly fucked, all pink with his big blue eyes still a little glazed and lips so swollen from kissing. Dave was both appreciative_ and_ resentful of the male refractory period when he looked at Jude just then. On one hand: _Jude_. On the other hand: his hips and abdomen needed a rest dammit.

Jude tugged at the yellow lettering on his shirt. "I just—I just thought 'Hal Jordan'." And Jude dissolved into a new fit of laughter.

Dave stared at him for several seconds as the joke sank in and then he was even _worse_ than Jude. He laughed deeply, until his sides ached more than his hips and he collapsed onto the mattress, taking Jude with him. Another little thing that Jude didn't seem to mind in the slightest; he simply rolled Dave a little (still chuckling himself) until he was laying on his side.

"Holy shit this is _the_ coolest pillow talk ever," Dave said after he could breathe again. "Just—Wow. You're not gonna top this. Ever."

"No, no; I think I could," Jude told him.

"Bullshit. How?"

"Next time we wear respective power rings and chant the corps' oaths when we're about to come."

"Oh my god!" Dave laughed until his eyes were wet this time. "Oh. My. Fucking. God. _YES_! You win at everything forever! Yes!"

"You are _welcome_." There was no shortage of self-satisfaction in Jude's tone as he grinned over at Dave.

Another lull of silence stretched between them as Dave's laughter died down. It was clearer and warmer than the first, though Dave would still swear the rhythm of Jude's breath was in sync with his own. Jude inched his face forward just enough to rub his nose against Dave's and his hand drifted up to thumb the edge of his jaw. Their bodies were still so tightly pressed together that Dave hadn't felt himself slipping out of Jude or register the other man's leg hiking up over his hip. He hadn't even noticed how his hands were busy carding through Jude's sweat-soaked hair and petting up and down Jude's thigh outer thigh. It was so organic, so right, that he didn't _need_ to. It was there and all Dave had to do was accept it.

It was safe; Jude made him feel safe. Silly as it was, big, solid Dave felt more secure with himself and the world around him when wrapped, wonderfully exhausted and sweaty, in arms and legs more slender and frail than his own. Perhaps that's where the words that next escaped Dave's mouth found their courage.

"I meant it." His brain, logically, protested, but his lips moved anyway. He felt himself turning scarlet all over again and _not_ from arousal. "Earlier when…_I meant it_."

"I know," Jude said; face so perfectly blank that for a moment that Dave was _sure_ that his heart had stopped. He was positive he'd made the biggest mistake he could have made, fucked everything beyond repair, and most terrifying of all, he was sure that he'd just lost one of the two people his very survival depended on.

But all of that was so dramatic and so very not Jude. It wasn't Dave either and it undeniably didn't describe their relationship. Jude made this easy for Dave like he made everything easy for him. Because it was what Dave needed.

"Me too." So simple and perfect followed by an almost chaste press of his mouth to Dave's.

There were few thousand things that Dave wanted to say just then, but _all_ of them seemed so pale when held up against the millions of things that they were supposed to represent. So Dave didn't bother trying. He had the feeling that Jude got it anyway, or, at least that's what his kiss tasted like this time.

"So do you _have_ power rings?" Dave asked flagging an eyebrow; the idea wasn't going to let him go now.

"Hmm…I think—"

"Hey, I hope you fuckers are hungry!" Kyle's voice shattered any plans of kinky, semi-role-playing as she barged through Jude's door, plastic sack in hand. "I got Chinese and—AHH!" Down went the sack and Kyle shortly after as she tried to backpedal out of the room with both hands clapped over her eyes. Dave and Jude both winced as her upper body—head included—hit hard plaster.

"What is _wrong_ with you two?" she cried, curling into a fetal position in the middle of the hallway floor. "Would it _kill_ you to throw a sock on that handle before you fuck? Assholes!" She tried to sit up, hand going to her head—which was very pointedly turned away from the doorway. "Fuck. _Fuck_. I'm bleeding. Shitbricks."

Jude bit his lip as he and Dave scrambled to get up and pull their pants up so that they could check on her. And to avoid any further embarrassment when the RA and others showed up thanks to Kyle's atrocious indoor voice. "Shit. I _knew_ I forgot something when I went to the bathroom during the first commercial break."

Dave sighed. Apparently the door lesson was still elusive for at least _one_ of them.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

**Story's Present**

"To tight?" HE asked, carefully adjusting the scrap of silk that was now securely fastened over Kurt's eyes. That question came wrapped in the delicious scratch of stubbled lips against the skin right behind his ear. In Kurt's opinion, the very best sort of wrapping; had his cock not already been hard from all the foreplay it certainly was now.

"_It's perfect_," Kurt moaned and half-collapsed into the willing body behind him. And it was. The lack of his sight had already blown up the other senses to almost frightening heights, especially touch.

He burned when his own bare skin met what felt like a wall of flesh, so warm and solid that he had no hope of stopping the whimper that the contact pulled from his lips. He mewled again as two strong arms slid around him, drawing Kurt tighter into that heat, into that body that he was equating more and more each second with something hewn straight from a cliff side. Particularly when there was something more than a little bit rocklike resting so perfectly against the cleft of his ass.

Kurt moaned again when HE moved, ever so slightly, to adjust HIS arms around Kurt's needy frame, and that thick cock pressed against his ass shifted. The sound was possibly the dirtiest, most whoreish thing to ever vibrate up his vocal chords. Worthy of a porn star, really, but what else could be expected when that one little thing (okay, one _big_ thing) set Kurt on _fire_?

"You like that?" HE whispered in Kurt's ear. Those maddening lips spoke against the column of his throat. A thumb flicked across one of Kurt's nipples as HIS hand slid up to the center of Kurt's chest, fingers splaying out over his sternum. The other hand mimicked that path downward drawing circles around his bellybutton as HIS hips rocked forward.

Kurt keened for a second time and didn't care about how wanton he sounded. Quite frankly he _was_ wanton; he was rock hard and pressed against a man who obviously wasn't disgusted by him. Wanton was just fucking perfect for that moment in time.

"Yeah, you like that," HE chuckled. The tone was thick, dark and Kurt could feel it resonate right from the center of HIS chest making him shiver. It was the most perfectly sensuous sound Kurt had ever heard. Right behind the noise that HE made when HE suddenly scooped Kurt up like a ragdoll.

Kurt _really_ couldn't help it, he squeaked; he had just been hefted off of the ground like Scarlet O'Hara, he was entitled to his surprise. Not that it lasted very long. Right after Kurt's mouth opened HE covered it with his own, swallowing the embarrassing sound and everything else Kurt could give. A fraction of a second passed where Kurt hesitated, unsure and afraid of wanting this. The taste of HIM, though, that heady, masculine, sweet, and never-to-be-found-anywhere-else flavor destroyed all of Kurt's reservation. Winding his arms around HIS neck, Kurt opened himself enjoying that wonderful tongue fucking in and out of his mouth. He wondered if it was just his imagination or if every flick of that soft muscle wasn't somehow going deeper than the one before.

By the time they'd made it onto the bed Kurt's lips were burning and his jaw was aching. He couldn't even recall how long it had taken before his back met the mattress (or how exactly they'd gotten there). It couldn't have been long but kissing like that took up its own eternity. Not that Kurt minded either the stinging lips or the sore jaw. He craved that sort of pain more than air, even though Kurt did—_reluctantly_—have to pull back to breathe.

HE hovered over Kurt on hands and knees as they both took a second to replenish the oxygen in their lungs. HE was being careful and considerate, not wanting to suffocate Kurt with his weight. Kurt adored that about HIM, but the need for more, more touching, more contact, more _anything_ that would stoke that blinding heat was too overwhelming for gentlemanly consideration. Flowery bullshit and tenderness were made for foreplay and they were _way_ past foreplay.

Kurt leaned up, using HIS breath in the darkness to seek out HIS mouth and catch the lower lip roughly with his teeth. HE hissed, biting back but took the hint and eased HIMSELF onto Kurt, still taking the brunt of the weight through crafty maneuvering. Kurt let HIM have that and wound his legs around HIS hips, half-sobbing when their cocks brushed together. His hands scrabbled down HIS sides, across HIS back and up and down HIS arms, committing each hard plane of muscle to memory. Sweat-slick and covered in silky-coarse hair HIS body felt infinite over Kurt's. Almost as if Kurt could spend his whole life trying to map out the contours of sinew, bone and skin but he'd still never quite be able to reach it all.

Thrusting up, Kurt struggled not only to hold onto HIM but to hold off on his climax. It was too soon. The burn of his thighs as they were stretched wide, the slippery slide of their bodies together, and the exquisite thrum of HIS heart over Kurt's was too much and not enough all at once. He would have given anything in the world, absolutely anything, to stay in that moment for the rest of his life.

That wasn't really an option, though, and Kurt knew it. The steadily rising heat in the very pit of Kurt's stomach, in fact, told him that he'd be lucky to last another minute let alone a lifetime. HE seemed aware of this as well. Whether HE picked it up from the uneven, shallow breaths Kurt took or the urgent little noises he was making between them, it was unclear. What _was_ clear is that HE saw Kurt's climax impending waving like a white flag several yards away and chose to meet it in the _best_ possible way.

HE pulled from Kurt's arms quickly, sliding down his body so fast that Kurt didn't really have time to complain about the loss. One moment he was running his tongue against the most delicious spot of neck in all of creation and the next big hands were gripping the insides of his thighs while _HIS_ tongue traced the length of Kurt's cock from root to tip. Kurt cried out, a sharp, staccato sound that fizzled into a helpless whimper when the head was suddenly engulfed in hot, wet perfection. Throwing back his head Kurt gripped the sheets hard enough to make the joints of his hands ache in an effort to ground himself for just a few more seconds.

There was a soft, sticky pop as HE pulled off of Kurt's cock. "Come on, baby," HE whispered. HIS lips and the stubble surrounding them grazing the hypersensitive skin of Kurt's inner thigh as HE spoke. "Come for me."

If that command hadn't set Kurt off then the rough pressure of a finger forcing past the tight ring of muscle at his hole certainly would have. He had both, though, and Kurt screamed as every muscle in his body drew up and then that bright, unbelievable heat burst at the base of his spine erupting into the more than welcoming warmth of HIS mouth. Pleasure surged through every inch of Kurt; massive, debilitating waves that seemed to crush every nerve over and over again until he was blissfully numb beneath his blindfold, oblivious to everything in the world save for the soft, hungry sounds HE made as HE licked Kurt clean. It was absolute perfection.

Or it would have been if Kurt's subconscious hadn't finally tagged out and forced his eyes to flutter open on his bedroom ceiling.

"Fuck." Kurt stared at the soft, off-white plaster above his bed, blinking heavily as he tried to gather his thoughts. He was on fire and his heart felt like it was trying to pound its way up into his throat. Shifting a little Kurt felt an all too familiar warmth and weight clinging to his briefs. He flipped back his blanket, hoping beyond reason that what he was going to find was _not_ a ghost of puberty-past. Kurt was very disappointed.

"_Fuuuck_."

Considering that it was about six in the morning—and he had to clean his sheets anyway—Kurt didn't even bother with trying to go back to sleep. When DN wasn't touring he usually did his best to keep to a decent, not-sleeping-until-noon schedule. Ever since settling in the New Haven apartment Kurt had been training himself to get up around between nine and ten each morning. It was mostly an effort to monopolize personal time since his roommates and the girls preferred to sleep late. Except Santana, of course. God got up whenever she thought she should no matter how much sleep she had/hadn't gotten and _always_ operated like she'd had the recommended full eight hours of pillow time.

Luckily for Kurt, however, God and the rest of her acolytes were still asleep when he stripped his bed. After the washing machine was started, Kurt cleaned himself up, found his workout clothes, and went downstairs to the Pines' on-site gym. Gym might have been stretching the definition of the word, the place only had a four treadmills, three ellipticals, one weight machine and certainly no attached cleanup facilities or trainers. It was still nice, though, as far as Kurt was concerned, he didn't mind not having a locker room when his apartment was just an elevator ride away and he certainly didn't need a trainer to use an elliptical. He also didn't need one for the yoga he did afterward. Well, he _might_ have, given that there was always something dicey about slowly stretching until you could get a leg behind your head but Kurt let himself live dangerously on that one. Besides, he'd been doing yoga long enough to know his body's limits _and_ he wasn't on tour so a pulled hamstring wasn't going to ruin his life.

All of that taken into consideration, Kurt went easy on himself. Tour wasn't an issue but writing, reworking, and recording were and while Jules was definitely the mastermind when it came to all of that Kurt had his own part to play. That part being making sure Jules didn't overtax herself so that Santana, in turn, didn't murder anyone.

Kurt had just finished rolling up his mat and was preparing to head back to the apartment when the gym doors parted and in walked Jude. Despite living on the same floor of their apartment building Kurt hadn't seen much of Dave's other best friend in the three weeks or so since they'd met. He'd only caught a few passing glances of the other man, exchanging the customary polite waves and smiles before going about his own business.

"Hi," Kurt said, using his friendliest voice and smile (for what reason he couldn't be sure). "How's it going?"

Jude barely even paused to look at him. All that Kurt got was the swipe of bright blue eyes over his face, a limp wave, and a "Hey" that was hardly the most enthusiastic thing Kurt had had ever heard. Jude went by Kurt without another word and onto the nearest treadmill to start his morning workout.

He didn't know Jude, Kurt didn't know where he was from or anything about him really past his name, residence, appearance and the fact that he was very close to Dave and Kyle. Kurt had no idea what Jude had going on in his life aside from those two friends or what he didn't. There was no way for him to know if Jude was a Type-A personality, constantly working and under stress; they hadn't exchanged more than a handful of words since they had met.

Tucking his mat beneath his arm, Kurt headed toward the elevator while reminding himself sternly of all of those facts. He was the first one to admit that he was a little too proud and, from time to time, a little bit arrogant; Noah said that those faults had gotten better over the years but Kurt knew his flaws well enough to accept them. But no amount of rationalization on whether or not _he_ was overreacting, if Jude had his iPod buds in or maybe Jude was just a terse person in the morning, could erase the sinking suspicion in the bottom of Kurt's stomach: Jude did not like him.

* * *

**Author's Note Deux:** Okay, so that was chapter nine. These little smut snippets are the first I've written in what has to be years, if at all. I say that because older fan fiction I've written didn't go so in depth; the sexings were mostly just alluded to but the foreplay was there. Let me know how I did.

I would like to take this time to thank everyone again for reading and to ask you all, please, to not slip me any season 3 Glee spoilers in reviews. I'm not watching anymore and I honestly want to stay out of all the goings on both for my personal disagreements with the show and its plot _and_ because of fandom drama. I just don't want to know, guys.

Luck to you all in whatever you're doing, chapter ten will come along when I've got time in between studying, snacking, and napping.

Love,

Les


	10. A Happy SAD Gathering Part 1

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing.

**Author's Note:** This story has been an AU officially since around chapter four (episode "Night of Neglect"), I believe, and I stopped watching Glee after the "Prom Queen" episode. Nothing in Comic Cons takes from cue from anything Glee Cannon since season two was 3/4s finished and I'd very much appreciate no spoilers for the show being dropped in reviews. I really don't want to know what's going on with it any longer. Thanks for that and an even bigger thank you for reading and reviewing. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter.

Ooh, _and_ a thank you to winterswallows for her help, guidance, and annoying way of being right.

* * *

There were very few things in the world that could truly irritate Kurt anymore. Eight years living on the road had made him at least a thousand times more patient than he had been at nineteen. Given what he remembered of his teenage self—mostly haughtiness, superficiality, and fantastic hair—though, that may not have been saying much. But honestly there were maybe three things that Kurt had no patience for: interviewers asking how his band had been formed for the millionth time, creeps who didn't take the first hint to fuck off, and Jules' excessive perfectionism. He was dealing with the lattermost on that February day, of course.

Now that wasn't to say that Kurt didn't appreciate his friend's genius or her dedication because he did. Jules had a wonderful ear, goddamn incredible really, and it only got better with time. The same with her playing. Guitar, bass, piano, violin—fucking _everything_—each flick of her wrist still transmuted into a tour de force once released into the air.

And she would never, _ever_, believe that.

Perfectionist was a tame word for Juliet Hamilton when it came to music. It was the term most used by Padma, Finn, and Noah because they: A) didn't mind repeating chords/rhythms a few million times to appease her, B) they played smaller parts in the creative process, and C) they, frankly, were just nice people. _Less_ nice people—specifically Santana and Kurt—preferred the description "psychotic" when it came to Jules and they _rarely_ made an effort to please her in the studio.

Santana's reasons were better than Kurt's and he could/did admit it. Jules, like all talented, driven people, never knew her own limits and as the woman behind all of that genius, Santana took looking after her wife very seriously. Seriously enough that she never attempted to be anything but honest with Jules. And since Honest-Santana just wasn't compatible with Nice-Santana (which, as far as Kurt was concerned, was a _myth_) that meant Jules got a fair amount of screeching wrapped in snide comments. Jules also got raucous make-up sex later on but, like everyone else Santana ruled over, she still had to put her penance in.

Kurt, on the other hand, simply got tired. He loved Jules like he loved Noah, Finn, Padma, Rachel, Quinn, and Santana; he would probably even die for her. But would he lay down a twentieth try at a not-even-really-a-demo track after almost ten strenuous hours in the studio? Fuck no. Not for her, not for _anyone_ and especially not when Jules had circles underneath her eyes that looked like bruises.

Yeah, Jules' genius came with insomnia and it made her that much more unbearable to work with.

"Come _on_, Kurt!" she urged from her spot at the console. Kurt turned off the intercom, momentarily silencing her as he took his headphones off and set them aside. He took a deep breath, preparing himself, before exiting the isolation booth and facing the redhead's demands again.

"I'm done," he informed his partner quite calmly when he met her on the opposite side of the door. Kurt met her livewire sage eyes with his most level and cool gaze—which given the way that Jules' eyes sizzled when she was mad, was a true feat. "I'm tired and I'm done. And so are you." Grabbing his bottle of water that he'd left beside a tray of spare pop filters, Kurt turned away from Jules before she could say anything more and strode toward the door. He spared a moment and risked the fire surely waiting in her glare to call over his shoulder, "Twenty minutes, clean up what you can then save it for now. If you're not out by then I'm coming in with Tana and we'll _drag_ you out."

Closing the door firmly behind him before any protesting could begin (Jules brand protests came with flying bottles from time to time) Kurt collapsed against the frame with a tired sigh. He loved his job, really and truly, and he loved all the people he worked with _especially_ Jules. But fuck if there weren't days when he wondered if managing an explosives factory would be less stressful.

Cool Blue Studios in New Haven was a small, out of the way place. It had been built from the gutted remains of a church that had suffered major fire damage back in the mid 2000s which was how it had been picked up by one of Geffen's subsidiaries for a neat sum. They liked the close-but-not-quite-New-York locale for its "alternative" artists. Which Kurt knew, even without Santana's help, translated to: _we'll send the non-billboard acts here_. All of that was preferable as far as Kurt was concerned, though. He'd take the privacy of CB's single story layout over the hustle of its New York/LA skyscraper counterparts. It made working ever so much more relaxing. It even mellowed Santana out considerably; or at least that's what Kurt assumed when he walked into the lounge and found her on the couch reading, legs thrown over Finn's lap as his brother painted her toenails.

There were many post-high school relationships that Kurt found odd. Rachel and Quinn's closeness had taken a while to believe and he was pretty sure that no one would _ever_ have expected Noah and him to become so inseparable. But Santana and Finn as besties? Yeah, that one took the fucking strange cake.

It made sense though, in a convoluted way. Santana would never, ever admit to having a heart but Kurt always suspected she'd felt bad for giving Finn so much trouble their junior year. Or at least she had after he walked into the choir room the following fall and found her with her head up some new (moaning) cheerio's skirt. Finn never outed her and from that point on Santana never let anyone—herself included—badmouth Kurt's brother. God didn't really have any soft spots but if she did, Kurt figured at least one would be Finn-shaped.

"I gave your spouse-creature the twenty minute mark before she gets dragged out," Kurt informed Santana. He plopped down beside Noah on a couch across from his brother and their tour manager. His best friend glanced up from his phone and slung an arm around Kurt's shoulders, wordlessly reading the stress on his face. Kurt sighed, closed his eyes, and leaned into Noah's side, resting his head against the other man's chest.

"Good," Santana said. "I was about to make that call on my own and just do the dragging part. I think I'm putting a few Tylenol PM in her dinner tonight, I don't like when she gets like this." Anyone else who didn't know Santana would think that she was barely feigning interest in their conversation. Kurt, like the rest of his band mates, however, had years of practice in reading her cool tones and heard the real concern there.

"Fuck the Tylenol, Tana," Padma advised as she came back to the sitting area from the kitchenette, tea and a sandwich in hand. The sandwich she thrust toward Kurt. Her cow-brown eyes had an edge to them, telling him that he needed to eat that sandwich lest she _make_ him. Kurt didn't fight her edict; Padma was the most agreeable person in the whole world but she could still be pigheaded when she felt the urge to play mom. Besides he _was_ hungry.

Kurt started to eat as Padma sat down beside Finn. She looked like cat as she slipped onto the cushion, as if her form was pure fluid and there were no clunky bones to impede her effortless grace. There was hardly anyone attracted to double-X chromosomes who wasn't enamored with Padma right after introductions had been made. Even Kurt could find no aesthetic faults with her appearance and he _tried_. Those elegant boneless-bones were just too well assembled beneath unblemished cinnamon skin and magnetic eyes, though. If she wasn't so damn good Kurt would probably have hated Padma on principle.

"If you really loved her, you'd spring for Seconal." Padma grinned at Santana over her tea.

Finn laughed as Santana eyed her. "They're married," Kurt's brother pointed out without looking up from the toe he was currently lacquering. "The need to impress with fancy drugs was done by the time Jules popped the question."

"I'm telling your wife you said that," Padma teased, lightly smacking Finn's shoulder. "Three days before Valentine's no less. Are you even going to make an effort to wow her?"

"Hey," Noah interjected, "his woman makes like twenty times what he does per year. He's a drummer in band AKA _trophy husband_. Rach needs to wow _him_, dammit."

"Yeah," Finn agreed as he nudged Padma back with his elbow. "Look at me. Frickin' _stud_."

Kurt nearly choked on a bite of roast beef as laughter slid up his throat. His brother stuck his tongue out in response. "Watch it," Finn warned though his tone was far from sharp. He pointed the little brush toward Kurt. "I recall someone singing a love song to me once-upon-a-time."

"_You_ watch it, brother mine." He raised an eyebrow at Finn in playful threat. "We agreed to have selective amnesia about that."

"Are we recalling the time you were serenaded with 'A House Is Not a Home'?" Santana drawled looking up from her book and at Finn. Those wicked eyes flitted to Kurt and her plush lips curled. "Do you remember that kid, Kurtie-Kins? I'm pretty sure he was a eunuch."

"I'm not dignifying that," Kurt sniffed. He took a bite of his sandwich and glared at her. "And, quite frankly, I'm disappointed in you. That potshot was _way_ too easy."

Santana sighed as she returned to her book. "Yeah. I know. It's the thought that counts, though. Right?"

"Of course."

Amiable quietness hung in the air for a few moments between the five of them. Kurt finished his sandwich while Noah played with his phone. Finn kept painting Santana's toes, she went back to reading, and Padma sipped her tea. It was probably the most familiar scene in Kurt's whole world. The ambience was slightly lacking since Jules wasn't present scribbling in one of her notebooks. It didn't detract too much, though.

After he had finished his sandwich Kurt pulled his phone out and flicked it on. The intention there was mostly to check the time; he had _not_ been kidding about dragging Jules right out of the recording room after twenty minutes had gone by. Kurt's intentions, though, were sidetracked by a missed call/voicemail alert that flashed across the screen immediately. It was from Dave.

Kurt hit send on Dave's number at once as he stood and walked out into the hall. He had only seen Dave once since the outing two weeks beforehand that they'd taken with their respective best friends. They had grabbed coffee and pączki at _Estelle's_ again, just the two of them, and spent about three hours talking. Not anything heavy like first two times that they'd met up, just _talking_-talking, about their work, their friends, and that sort of thing. Quite frankly, Kurt enjoyed that the lighthearted banter and intellectual discussion a lot more than he had the conversations that had earned them that. Perhaps because there was no crying or apologies to derail Dave's smile and laughter.

It may have been strange, if he had taken time to (over)analyze it Kurt was sure he _could_ have dug up a reason to be unsettled about liking Dave. But he didn't care to. He had _meant_ his forgiveness and intended for the past to stay good and buried. He hadn't known the real Dave in high school but he was getting there quickly and Kurt _liked_ the man he was bit-by-bit discovering. Very much in fact; he'd even go so far as to call them friends now. Dave had his own ringtone and _only_ Kurt's friends got personal ringtones. Well, all right, everyone in his number bank got one but he actually spent _time_ assigning ringtones to his friends.

"Hey, Kurt," Dave greeted him after two rings. For a second Kurt wondered if _he_ had his own tone in Dave's phone and felt quite pleased about that. Even if he had no real reason to.

"Hey," Kurt said—wondering if it was just him or if his voice was _actually_ that chipper. He was genuinely glad to hear from Dave but, Christ, he wasn't a sixteen-year-old with a crush.

_No, he was __**not**_.

"How was Florida?" he asked leaning against the wall next to the studio's main entrance and ignoring the little voice at the back of his head. "You're back in town today right?"

Dave and Kyle had left for Orlando the previous Friday to attend a comic convention there on Saturday and Sunday. They had taken a few extra days to drive down to Miami and visit with Kyle's brother, Patrick, who was a senior at FIU.

"Yeah, Jude just dropped us off at the house about an hour a go," Dave said. "And Florida was pretty nice. I like having four seasons up here but a break from the cold wasn't a bad idea. Plus, Pat's a fun kid." The rich, low sound of Dave's laughter felt warm despite the minor static that accompanied it.

Kurt chuckled himself. "Well, if he's anything like Kyle I can only imagine."

"Nah, Pat's one of the mellow ones. At least as mellow as they _make_ Queens." There was an almost devious sort of mirth in Dave's tone.

"I don't think I ever want to meet any of Kyle's siblings," Kurt told him. It was only half a joke; he imagined all of Kyle's brothers as male versions of her. Smaller breasts (hopefully because no man deserved natural bitch tits like those foisted on him) and shorter hair but an equal amount of that wolverine-esque glint in their eyes.

Again, Dave laughed. "Aw, don't judge _all_ of them based on her. Geoff, Jimmy, and Pat are really nice guys."

"I notice that you chose not to say what the _other_ five were."

"I'm just going to say _all_ of Kyle's siblings have treated me like one of their own."

"And that's a good thing?" Another half joke because that image of eight very large, acerbic, and ass-kicking men refused to dissipate. In fact the more Kurt thought about Kyle's siblings the more the more he was _sure_ a glare from them could set something on fire.

The chuckle that rolled from Dave was softer, almost soft enough to be lost in the static but Kurt caught it nonetheless. It belayed that, even if Kyle's brothers _were_ as scary as Kurt (somewhat) feared, their treatment of him was indeed a good thing.

"Yeah," Dave said, confirming that thought, though quite frankly he didn't need to. "Most of the time it really is."

Kurt didn't respond to that comment directly. He honestly didn't know how to phrase how happy he was that Dave had a _real_ family now—not just the obligatory façade as provided by his biological parents—without it sounding awkward. So he didn't try; though he liked to think that his smile was caught in the short silence that dipped between Dave's words.

"So how's your week gone?" the other man asked. "Any easier than the first?" The barest hint of amusement was in Dave's voice; he'd listened to Kurt whine about Jules the perfectionist during their last meet-up.

"Ugh…"

"Aw, shit, dude, I'm sorry." Kurt could see Dave cringing as he held his phone.

"Don't be," Kurt said. "Art takes blood, sweat, and tears, after all."

"Yeah, true," Dave said. "I mean, Kyle _says_ my tears give the paint the right consistency but, really, I've got to take her word for it."

Kurt was _very_ glad that the studio supervisor had gone on break (or whatever it was the frigid witch did ninety-nine-percent of the day; she was _never_ at the her desk) and couldn't see him giggling like a five-year-old. He collapsed on a bench nestled between two tacky potted palms, covering his mouth even though there was no one to hear the occasional piggy, little snort that escaped.

"Thanks," he told Dave when he could form words properly again. His cheeks felt warm and the muscles in his face much less tense now that they'd been sufficiently pulled in a direction that _wasn't_ a frown. "I needed that."

Again, Kurt could visualize Dave's actions as he spoke with certainty. He could feel those broad shoulders roll in a shrug and the right side of the other man's mouth tugging upward, just barely showing his upper teeth. "Don't mention it. Least I could do after enjoying beaches and sunshine while you were up here toiling in the cold."

"I won't be too jealous," Kurt promised. "I mean, just as long as you don't flaunt how many hot guys in Speedos you saw while you were there."

"Hmm…" Dave feigned thoughtfulness. "Maybe inviting you over Sunday is a bad idea then. Kyle will totally parade all of the pics she took. I don't want to be cruel here _but_ she did get some awesome high-contrasts of surfer abs."

"What now?" Kurt's interest was torn between the part about being invited to Dave and Kyle's home on Valentine's Day and surfer abs. As hard up has he'd been Kurt may actually have salivated the tiniest bit at the thought of a bellybutton surrounded by firm stomach.

_Boy, you are __**pathetic**_, his least favorite voice (the one that sounded like Santana) cooed.

"Well, that's the main reason I called earlier," Dave said. "Kyle and I are hosting this year's Singles Awareness Day gathering. We thought you and Noah might like to come if you didn't have any other plans."

"Um, as far as I can recall we do _not_," Kurt said. He pulled his knee up to his chest trying to ignore how excited Dave's invitation had really made him. Jesus, he really _was_ kind of pathetic anymore. "What exactly does this gathering entail?"

"Wine, fatty foods, wine, good movies, _wine_, and generally entertaining company peppered with apathy for happy couples." Dave's voice had an almost singsong quality to it as he rattled off his list. "Oh, and have I mentioned wine? 'Cause there tends to be a lot around when the bitching-about-happy-couples thing starts."

"Well, _yeah_," Kurt drawled. "You can't celebrate S.A.D. properly without at least five bottles." Maybe it was a little bit pessimistic (okay, it was _really_ fucking pessimistic and Kurt was okay with that) but he had never really come to appreciate the so-called spirit of Valentine's Day. The only one he had celebrated with any sort of fervor was the one he'd shared with Blaine his senior year. And honestly? Most of the excitement there had been put on to please his then-boyfriend. Grown-up Kurt and teenage-Kurt would always have a very cynical outlook on February 14th in common if nothing else.

"Five?" Dave snorted. "You lightweight."

"Hey, genes made me a teetotaler, _not_ choice."

"Mhmm, well, I'm just giving you fair warning: don't drive yourself if you're going to drink. Kyle's vicious about keeping guests safe." A heavy sigh rattled across the line. "At the last Memorial Day barbecue she tackled poor Vince to get his keys away from him."

The fact that Kyle would show love and concern through violence didn't surprise Kurt. What made him raise his eyebrows (or what would later, when he thought about it long enough) was that it didn't remotely surprise him. More than that, he kind of expected and even accepted it. It was, Kurt supposed, just part of her charm.

"Thanks," he said. "I'll remember to stuff an emergency twenty in my sock. When should I do that, by the way? What time does the wine come out and the whin_ing_ begin?"

Dave groaned loudly and Kurt would swear he heard the distinct slap of palm meeting forehead. "Oh, Christ-on-a-pogo-stick, that was _awful_, Kurt. Just—wow. You and Kyle have been texting, haven't you? Because _that_? That was a trademark _Kyle_ bad."

"_Maybe, maybe not_," he snickered. There was no maybe, though; Kurt had totally exchanged more than a couple of texts with Kyle since the shopping trip. Mostly about shoes and the like but a few fun stories had been traded between all of that; he'd sent her video clips of Velvet Goldmine Night.

"Ugh-huh," Dave said. "I'm going to go and nap now before I say something incriminating."

"Oh you're no fun."

"And I'm okay with that," the other man told him. "I'll text you the party details later on, okay? Or Kyle will. Someone will. I promise." He laughed a little bit. "I was serious about that nap. Vacation time wasn't as vacation-y as it could have been and I've got a shit-ton of unpacking to do."

"I think you're lying." Kurt was surprised at the sincere disappointment rising up against his ribs that his conversation with Dave was ending. He chided then consoled himself over the fact that they'd have plenty of time to talk on Sunday anyway. With wine and good food involved. "Kyle told me the first night we met that she takes care of all of your clothes. We both know you're not putting anything away, David Karofsky." Kurt debated for a moment or two, gnawing at his lower lip, before adding on, "_Or_ touching her ironing board ever again."

"Fuck, she told you about _that_!" Dave all but shouted and Kurt had to hold his phone away from his ear a bit. It didn't really bother him though, on the contrary, Dave's reaction was more-or-less expected and had Kurt giggling once again. "God dammit—it was _once_! Once! And she's the one who tried to make me learn that shit in the first place! It's her fucking fault for misdirection!"

"Dave, you understand multivariable calculus but _not_ when to move the iron?" he continued to tease.

Dave growled deep in his throat and _fuck_, if just for a second that didn't send something racing down Kurt's spine before he dutifully tamped it out. "I'm hanging up now. Before I say something that incriminates me further."

"I don't think it's a crime to burn your own shirt, Dave."

"Goodbye, Kurt." There was a finality to Dave's tone that told Kurt he indeed was going to hang up. Right after he got the last word in. "Have fun recording."

The line went dead while Kurt's jaw dropped a little. He pulled his phone away to stare down at it. A slow smile crept over his face and Kurt finally had to laugh.

"Oh you _bitch_." He meant it as fondly as possible, of course.

Ending the call from his end Kurt stood and returned his cell to his back pocket. Dave's last jibe had reminded him that his business for the day was far from over. And, it, unlike Dave, really was going to be kind of a bitch—in more ways than one.

Still, for whatever reason, plans to look forward with the weekend, a good conversation, or maybe it was even just hearing Dave's voice again, Kurt didn't feel as tired as he should have.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Party details came as promised sometime late Friday morning. Actually they came twice, once just after ten and then an hour or so later. The second held a schedule change (Saturday instead of Sunday) and a suggestion that made Kurt inwardly cringe for just a second or two. Dave had apparently volunteered Jude to be Kurt and Noah's ride since they lived in the same building and were heading in the exact same direction. Briefly, Kurt thought about texting Dave back and saying that it was unnecessary but aborted that idea as quickly as it came. There was no good reason, he rationalized, to turn away the assistance. Jude knew the way and just because he wasn't poor didn't mean that money should be tossed at cabs for any old reason.

Jude was being amiable enough, anyway. He'd called Kurt Friday evening, almost chipper as he rattled off what time he wanted to leave by and possibly stopping by the store on the way. Kurt couldn't be sure that they would ever be friends or anything but the lump of uncertainty he'd had concerning the other man was dwindling.

Friday night the rest of the band abandoned the New Haven apartments. Santana and Jules had a romantic trip at a B&B in Vermont planned (which Noah would probably never stop teasing them about) meaning Santana forced a half-day at the studio so that they could beat traffic. Padma left right around the same time Santana and Jules did; she was driving to Trenton where her boyfriend, Alfie, was waiting on her. Finn, of course, despite all the joking, had made some pretty good V-Day plans concerning his wife and he was heading into Manhattan by four o'clock himself. Kurt and Noah celebrated the return of their "bachelor pad" aptly; they ordered Chinese and Noah convinced Kurt to join him on his newest war game's online campaign before an early bedtime. It made him feel extremely old to think about it but fuck it, the week had been long and if he was going to be an any sort of a partying spirit Kurt _needed_ a good night's sleep.

His sleep debt was obviously deeper than he'd been anticipating because Kurt crawled into bed around ten-thirty and didn't wake up until just before eleven. It was unusual for him, very unusual, but working with Jules in-studio was unusually stressful, so he supposed that it evened out.

Kurt spent most of his time after breakfast and before getting ready doing laundry, his own _and_ Finn's. Eight years of adulthood and his brother had yet to learn how to properly operate a washing machine. After his last attempt (he'd overdone the soap) none of them wanted him to try again either. It was just after the last load popped out around two and Kurt was getting ready to shower that the doorbell rang.

"Noah!" Kurt called, hoping against hope that his best friend would take care of this one. He _really_ didn't want to greet anyone in the sloppy t-shirt and sweatpants that he wore for housework. Poking his head out of his bedroom door Kurt looked up the hall and scanned what little he could see of the living room/kitchenette. "Noah!" There was no sign of the guitarist though Kurt had the sneaking suspicion Noah could hear him, wherever he may have been hiding.

"_Dammit_, Noah," he growled. "_Fine_! Let _me_ get the door! I've just been working all morning, you know, not doing _anything_ stressful like playing Halo 9!" Kurt imagined all of the nice, torturous little ways Noah was going to have to pay him back as he sucked in a breath, straightened his clothes (as best one could straighten sweatpants and a shirt three times their size) before opening the door.

On the other side was Jude, dressed in his jacket, scarf, gloves, and a nervous smile. Immediately Kurt felt a twinge in his gut.

"Um, hey," Dave's best friend greeted him with a wave. He shifted a little on the balls of his feet, restlessly.

"Hey," Kurt said slowly. "You're kinda early." He glanced at the clock on the microwave which read just five minutes after two P.M. "I thought we didn't have to leave until four?"

"Ugh, about that..." Jude's plush lower lip was worried between his teeth for a second or two. "I can't go. I've got a work emergency and I don't think I'll be getting out until later this evening." The glint in his eyes was truly remorseful.

"Oh." That had probably been the thing Kurt least expected to hear from the other man. Relief swelled beneath his ribs for just a second before guilt deflated it. He _really_ needed to get all of this senseless paranoia out of his system before he did something incredibly stupid.

"I already called Kyle and let them know what was going on with me," Jude continued. "Do you need directions to their house? Do you have the address to give the cab? I can text it to you if you don't." His phone was already out and turned on.

"It's all right." Okay, now he felt a little bit like a douchebag for thinking anything negative about Jude. His startlingly blue eyes were sincere and contrite and he was back to gnawing at his lip. He was going to miss a good chunk of his best friends' party and he'd come to make sure that Kurt and Noah—who he really owed nothing to—could still go.

Kurt shook his head assuring Jude. "Kyle put the address into my phone with her and Dave's numbers that first night we met. We're good." He paused for a second, feeling extremely awkward and even more guilty (if that were possible). "I'm—I'm sorry you can't go with us."

Jude shrugged but smiled good-naturedly. "It is what it is, you know?"

"Yeah, but still, it sucks," he said.

"Yeah," Jude agreed. "A little bit." He shoved his hands into his coat pockets and flashed one last boyish smile. "Well, I'll see you later tonight. Have fun."

Kurt returned the smile with a short wave. Yeah, he was _really _feeling like an irrational jerk right about then. From now on if Jude didn't wave back in the gym Kurt was going assume that he was in the zone with his music on and be happy about it _God dammit_. "Hopefully not too much later. I hope everything goes well."

"Thanks, man." Jude waved back as he turned. "See ya."

"Bye." Kurt closed the door as Jude rounded the corner and sighed heavily. He had a cab to call, a shower to take, and plenty of kicking himself to do before the cab showed up.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

There was something simultaneously breathtaking and unsettling about snow, Kurt decided, especially when it covered everything in a thick white crust. On the one hand it was beautiful, coating everything the way it did, like beaten egg whites or mallow-whip. Snow glittered when the sun hit it too, making the frosty world brilliant enough to compare with high summer. Then on the other hand once it melted together that crust was slick and dangerous and there was nothing more adept at inducing cold chills than the image of a snowy night. Particularly when there was no precipitation, just a moonless bluish-black sky stretched over an endless white tundra. The taxi ride to Dave and Kyle's house started out diamond bright (four o'clock give or take a few) but as the sun started its mournfully early descent toward the tail end of the journey the scenery dove into cold, dark and maybe even a little foreboding.

Kyle and Dave lived in West Haven, that Kurt had known, what he did _not_ know was that they resided in the city's backwoods. Hell, he hadn't even considered that West Haven might _have_ a backwoods, it looked too town-y to keep anything besides suburbs and shore. Apparently, it _did_ have them, though, and that's where Dave and Kyle had chosen to live. There was one advantage to the locale, though; the house was actually quite easy to pick out since it seemed to be the only one occupying Fulton Road. Aside from a forest's worth of trees, of course.

Immediately Kurt was impressed. The house was large but not exorbitantly so, though he could see how some people might disagree when it was inhabited by just two people. Standing at two stories the outside appeared to be covered by stone and the long driveway curved from the road up to a double-door garage. Light poured from the many large windows making the house look somewhat like a beacon, the sight of it making Kurt feel suddenly much warmer and much more at ease; he liked the place at once, to put it succinctly.

Noah whistled as the taxi pulled up the neatly shoveled driveway looking past Kurt toward the house. "Damn. Maybe I should've started drawing or some shit." He grinned sideways at Kurt.

Kurt raised an eyebrow at his best friend. "Judging by your scrawl in our high school yearbooks, there aren't enough classes available that could help you, Noah."

"_Ouch_." It came with a chuckle, reaffirming the quip didn't really offend. "Wow, really? Is this because I drew all of those cocks around your pic freshman year? I thought we were bros, man. You gotta let that go."

"Freshman _and_ sophomore year," Kurt reminded him with a nudge to the ribs, though there was no spite in the gesture or Kurt's smirk. "And actually, I'm pretty sure you were the one who drew the humping stick figure caricatures of Blaine and me at the back of my senior yearbook too. You remember, the ones I didn't know were there until my dad was flipping through, looking for my honors mention?"

The grin Noah wore only widened. "You can't prove shit. _I_ think Blaine did it, personally. Wanted to brag."

"You are such a dick," Kurt said with a laugh. The cab slowed to a stop not far from a set of sturdy looking oak doors as he attempted to glare at his best friend. The venture failed, miserably too as Noah's smile coupled with the memory prodded giggling. They paid the driver, who thankfully, seemed disinterested in the conversation of his passengers (though Kurt still couldn't meet his eyes) and exited the taxi.

"Look," Noah began as they walked toward the doors, careful of gravel and icy patches. "I'm just saying he stared at that particular piece of art for a _long_ time."

"You shoved it in his face and asked who was bottoming, Noah." Kurt adjusted the gift basket they had purchased for Kyle and Dave while tossing an eye roll to his companion. Dave had said that they didn't need to bring anything in his first text but Kurt couldn't go to a party without contributing in some way. It felt too rude. "He wasn't so much staring at your doodle as he was rendered catatonic by your audacity."

Noah snorted as he reached out to press the doorbell. He bounced a little and rubbed his hands together trying to ward off the cold. Noah had chosen yet again to dress more for style than for prudence and though they weren't walking anywhere he was certainly paying for that poor decision as they waited for someone to come to the door.

"Really? Sad. Up until now I figured it was just some memory of you bending him over a counter and making him scream that made his eyes that big."

Being Noah's best friend for a decade or so had prepared Kurt well for lewd comments and witty repartee but every once and awhile the other man succeeded in rendering him speechless. This was one of those times. All Kurt could do was stare at him, grope for words, and debate on whether this one was something to laugh or snark about. He didn't get a chance to decide on any of that. Not ten seconds after Noah had spoken the sound of a deadbolt being unfastened cut the air and Kyle was throwing open the doors.

With her hair in pigtails and a dishtowel in one hand, Kyle was dressed in baggy, comfortable clothes which were covered by a moderately spotty Wonder Woman apron. There was no makeup on her face (which Kurt decided was just as pretty plain) but there were a few spots of what he assumed was flour and, more importantly, surprise there.

"Hey," Kurt greeted her, waving and suddenly feeling very self-conscious. They couldn't have been too early…could they? Jude had wanted to leave around four and Kurt and Noah had followed that plan. Though _he_ had mentioned stopping at the store along the way. He glanced around, realizing there were no other cars in the drive—unless everyone else was in the garage.

"Hi, guys…" Kyle said slowly, far too slowly, with her eyes remaining clouded as they switched rapidly between Kurt and Noah. "What's up?"

While Kurt's brain went into panicking overdrive his hands thrust the gift basket out.

"Um, for you!" he practically shoved the thing into Kyle's arms. "I know that Dave said we didn't need to bring anything and Jude said that too but it just didn't seem like good manners." Kurt could feel himself on the edge of babbling and he was smiling in a way he was pretty sure could be described as a combination of moronic and anxious. Noah had dubbed it his constipated smile.

Kyle blinked a few times as something in her eyes shifted, like she'd worked out a puzzle. That shift cleared the surprise from her face and carved a smile onto her soft mouth. Instantly Kurt's nervousness started fading.

"Jude said huh?" Kyle readjusted the basket so that she could carry it against her hip. "Well, he was right backing Dave up; you guys didn't have to bring _anything_, your hosts totally have shit covered." The smile on her face deepened and if there was any worry still lurking about in Kurt's stomach it was gone. "Thank you, though. Now fucking get in here, okay? I'm pretty sure your stag's already got frostbite." Wryness curved in the left side of Kyle's mouth as her dark eyes cut to Noah. "Dude, didn't you grow up in Ohio? Buy a coat."

"_Ha_,_ fucking ha_," Noah drawled. He pushed past Kurt _and_ Kyle to get inside, though. Kyle winked at Kurt ushering him on and he gladly obeyed.

The foyer was as impressive as the outside. The soft, fair hues of the walls, lights, floor, and even the wood of the double staircase (which Kurt thought was downright elegant) reminded him of honey. Interesting artwork was peppered between tasteful sconces and the air smelled like a mixture of spices, a very mild, flowery fragrance that was probably an air freshener and something quite pleasant but ultimately unnamable. Strains of a familiar song wafted from the wide archway nearest to Kurt's left along with the sound of cooking.

This was a home.

A slight pang resonated through Kurt at that thought. Memories of his father, Carol, and the tiny idiosyncrasies of the old life he'd taken so for granted flashed in his head and Kurt really had to work at pushing it all down. It wouldn't do to start acting like a baby until he'd gotten at least _some_ wine in him first.

"Coat rack is behind you," Kyle's voice—which Kurt found very soothing for some reason—interrupted his macabre thoughts. He followed her nod to a neat stand in the corner that already carried a few coats, scarves, and mittens. His coat, scarf, and hat as well as Noah's jacket joined them in quick order.

Kyle waved to the archway on her right/Kurt's left. "C'mon."

Surprisingly, Noah didn't have any coarse retort to that (though, it was probably even more surprising he hadn't made a pass at Kyle at all yet) but Kurt chalked that up to the fact that his best friend was still recovering from the cold. Yes, that was most definitely it, if the way Noah was rubbing his arms as they trailed after Kyle was any sort of indicator. Kyle was right, the idiot really needed to hunt out his winter coat. Or, more likely, _Kurt_ needed to hunt it up for him.

When they walked through the left arch Kurt noticed two things. The first was that the wide, lovely room with its warm color palette had to be the kitchen. A very, very nice kitchen with _two_ island counters, an ornate stove divider wall and a lovely stone fireplace in a corner that Kurt was ninety-nine percent sure was functional. The second thing he caught onto was the song. It was clearer, coming from a stereo he could not see, what Kurt _could_ see (and hear even better), however, was Dave. Standing at the end of the bigger island (the one with the stove) and oblivious to anything else, the bigger man was whisking something in a large bowl and singing—rather loudly—along.

"_Rebel, Rebel, you've torn your dress!_

_Rebel, Rebel, your face is a mess!_

_Rebel, Rebel, how could they know?_

_Hot tramp, I love you so!_"

He wasn't half-bad at Bowie for someone who probably only ever sang when they thought they were alone. Or just in the company of a best friend who was probably supposed to say something rather than deviously wink at the company she'd brought in with her while he continued belting out lyrics. Kurt almost felt bad. Almost. It was _really_ hard not to be amused when Dave looked up mid "_transmission and your live wire_" saw them, yelped (it wasn't high pitched and feminine but fuck if it wasn't funny) and almost tossed the whisk in alarm. So, honestly, Kurt didn't even attempt to hide his laughter and neither did Noah.

"Gimme your phone," Kyle ordered her best friend, seemingly unaffected by his red face and the daggers he was glaring at her. Setting the gift basket down on the small island Kyle didn't even wait for a response; she walked right on over shoved her hand into Dave's right back pocket and pulled out his BlackBerry.

The whisk was in danger of going air born again, though this time intentionally and toward Kyle's grinning face. Dave restrained himself, though, just not enough to keep himself from punching Kyle on the shoulder as she passed.

"You're an inconsiderate cunt, you know that?" Dave growled at her.

Kyle shrugged and stuck out her tongue. Her eyes twinkled as her fingers flew across the phone. "It's been said a few times, yeah." Looking up from Dave's phone the mischievous grin Kyle wore turned quizzical. "Did Jude use your phone yesterday when you two went to the store, by chance?"

"Um...I think so…" Dave clearly did not know where Kyle was going with her question. Kurt, though…_Kurt_ was starting to catch on and his stomach was back to being a little wobbly.

Dave shrugged and gave Kyle a reproving look as he did. "He's a lot like another handsy person in my life. He just shoves his hand in my pants and takes what he wants."

Kyle made a face. "You make it sound so gross when it's put it like that. I would _never_ grope any part of you and I know Jude hasn't played pocket pool in your pants for like nine years. Stop making things look weird in front of company." She nodded at Kurt and Noah who were now starting to feel a little bit awkward. Or at least Kurt was. Noah was smirking because _he_ hadn't had any shame in him since kindergarten.

Though it seemed like it could go against the laws of physics the redness of Dave's face intensified and he glanced over at their guests. Kurt did his very best not to make eye contact.

"You're the one who just—"

Dave's heated retort was cut off as Kyle shoved his phone just inches from his face.

"Okay, well, the point is either you're an idiot who can't remember the day of his own party _or_ Jude punk'd them."

"What?" both Noah and Dave exclaimed in near perfect unison. The twist in Kurt's stomach knotted itself.

Dave snatched the phone from Kyle; she didn't rebuke him for his lack of tact choosing instead to lean against the counter and look smug. At least for the moment or two she was focused on Dave as he looked through the text messages sent from his phone. When her dark blue eyes flicked over to Noah and Kurt a genuine apology played in them and along the curve of her smile.

"God _dammit_, Jude!" Dave growled at his screen.

"Congrats, Cutie, Princess." She nodded to them both playfully. "You're officially part of the Haven. How does your first prank feel?"

Kurt wanted to say really fucking shitty. The idea that he'd felt sorry for Jude—_really_ felt sorry for Jude and then he'd tricked them while Kurt was in the process of pitying him? It felt like a proverbial backslap. He'd made them look like morons. Granted only for a moment or two because, well, Kurt really had to hand it to Kyle she figured things out in seconds. But still, it didn't _feel_ like a harmless little trick to Kurt.

He kept all of that to himself, though. Jude had been a dick but it wasn't like he'd gotten them in a car wreck or sent them into a crack house (Rachel still sent Sunshine roses twice a year for that bullshit). It would be immature to throw a tantrum about this. At least where Dave could see it; Kurt was totally going to bitch Noah's ear right off when they got home.

"So there's _no_ booze and cake tonight?" Noah answered while Kurt gnawed on his lip. "God dammit." He sighed, pulling out his phone and flipping it open. "What was the number of the cab place? Maybe we can get the car back here before he hits town."

"Put that away," Kyle said before Kurt could answer him. Looking up he found that she'd crossed her arms and wore what Kurt had already come to recognize in their short acquaintanceship as her stubborn face. "You're already here, there's no point in leaving when you'll just make the drive again tomorrow."

"Oh—um…" Kurt was slightly taken aback by the offer. Not that he didn't appreciate it because, really he did. It was just probably the last thing he would have expected.

"Ooh, do I get to bunk with you?" Noah asked Kyle, ignoring Kurt's hesitance. Apparently he—along with his patented smarm—had thawed.

Kyle rolled her eyes at him as usual. "You wish."

"We've got a guest room," Dave interjected before Noah could keep digging his grave. He smiled apologetically at them. "Just the one bed but it's a king. I don't recommend sleeping on the Murphy unless you haven't hit puberty."

"Yeah," Kyle agreed. A somewhat wistful look crossed her face as she tilted her head toward her best friend. "Simon's only got like eight more years before he's too big for it, if that."

Dave mirrored her expression and sighed. "Yeah, I know. But hey," he reached over to squeeze her shoulder, "then it'll be Livy's spot and _she'll_ probably never outgrow it."

"True, her mom was pretty fucking tiny."

"The tiniest."

"So it's settled then." Kyle's attention rounded back on their guests almost fast enough to make Kurt's head spin. "You're staying."

"If you _want_ to," Dave threw in politely. He smiled again and shrugged. "You won't get locked in, I promise."

Kurt felt his reticence ebb at once when Dave smiled at him. It may not have been the best grounds for a sleepover but he couldn't say he didn't want to. Kyle was fun if still intimidating and Dave was…Kurt really liked talking with Dave.

"Well, if we can borrow some pajamas, sure," he said tucking his hands into his pockets as he beamed back at Dave. "I'd love to."

Kyle frowned at Dave and swatted his arm. "They didn't know to bring jammies? That's totally on _you_ not Jude." Her gaze flicked to Kurt and Noah as Dave bit his lip. "The point of the SAD party is sitting around eating, drinking, and moping in pajamas. That's like the origin of it." Dave flinched a little when her attention came back to him with a glare. "You're not allowed to handle invites anymore. Baking is your only party job from here on out. You forget important shit _and_ Jude always goes right under your radar."

"You know _most_ of the time it's not Jude that I have to make sure is behaving," Dave retorted with a pointed look and arched eyebrow.

"I resent that." Kyle put her nose in the air though her tone was playful.

"You _resemble_ that," Dave told her just as lightheartedly. "Pride 2015, Porthos."

"Hey, that asshole deserved it. No one throws anything at my bear but _me_, dammit."

Dave chuckled. "And he thanks you for defending him, really." Pure adoration shaped Dave's smile and lit his eyes as he dropped a fond kiss to Kyle's forehead. It was probably one of the most endearing things Kurt had ever seen. "Sometimes, though, you're a crazy bitch."

"Cunt," Kyle corrected, quite proudly too. "Bitches don't swing a bat like I do."

"Yeah, I'll give you that," Dave agreed.

Kyle grinned and turned back to Noah and Kurt yet again. "Okay, let's get you guys something to drink. It'll be about an hour and a half before dinner's done. I hope you like Thai food."

"I _love_ Thai food," Kurt told her.

Noah shrugged. "I'll shove anything in my face. Especially if it's made by a lovely hostess." He winked at Kyle.

While his best friend gave Noah a withering stare Dave looked up from the bowl he was once again whisking. "Dude, she's making pork with spicy peanut sauce; aren't you Jewish?"

"Please," Kurt said, "he broke Kosher as soon as he left home and he was no Temple boy before that."

Noah made a face. "You sound like my mother."

Kurt shrugged. "Yeah, well, your mother's right. Is there anything you need help with?" It was an open question to both Kyle and Dave.

"Not a chance," Dave told him. "Sit. We've got this." He gestured with his whisk at the stools placed neatly about the smaller island counter.

"You know my dad almost always starts the Sabbath with a ham sandwich," Kyle said as she crossed over to a standing wine cellar tucked to the rightmost (Kurt's right, it was probably Kyle's left) corner of the kitchen. She giggled as she opened the doors. "Once he took one right into Temple with him. Rabbi was so bowled over he never even said anything about it. What kind of wine do you guys prefer?" She glanced over her shoulder. "We've got a pretty decent collection. Or we've got beer if you prefer. Craft brews, only. I don't allow rat piss like Budweiser or Heineken in the house."

"Wine is good for me," Kurt said as he settled in on the closest stool, fighting down the urge to ask if he could help again. He suspected that Kyle (and Dave, though he'd also probably never say it) would find that incredibly annoying. "Any kind, really. Beer…Beer isn't my thing."

"You're Jewish?" was Noah's response to her query. Kurt wanted to slap his best friend in the back of the head. Not for the question but because of the way his eyes lit up when Kyle mentioned her father. If Kyle was Jewish on top of being pretty, curvy, and sarcastic Noah would start pursuing her in earnest. And _that_ would be messy, Kurt just knew.

"No, I'm a Cashew," Kyle told him. "My father is Jewish, though he's far from orthodox, and my mother is Catholic; same goes for her. Ergo their spawn are Cashews." Plucking a bottle from the cellar she closed it up after grabbing a corkscrew from a little drawer inside. Making her way over to the counter she paused to pluck glasses from a nifty (at least Kurt thought it was nifty) overhead rack between it and the cellar. "I've never gone to temple, or to mass, and I never intend to. Religion is boring."

Uncorking the wine deftly Kyle poured two glasses and set them down in front of Kurt and Noah. "Davey, do you want a glass?"

"What kind did you open?" her best friend inquired without looking up from his bowl.

"The Tapeña Rosé."

"The obnoxiously pink one?"

"Yep."

"Fuck yeah."

_Fuck yeah_ was a pretty adequate description of the taste that splashed across Kurt's tongue when he took his first sip. The wine was fruity without being sweet and very dry. He was no connoisseur of the stuff but Kurt could judge what he liked well enough and he doubtlessly liked this. Studying Noah out of the corner of his eye Kurt assumed by his best friend's raised eyebrows that he would probably concur with him.

Two more glasses of wine were poured and Dave accepted his with another peck to Kyle's temple. "You're awesome. Have I told you that lately? 'Cause you totally are, Porthos."

"It could stand to be mentioned more often," she said with the smuggest twist of her mouth. "Twice, three times a day, maybe."

"And so modest," Dave drawled. "Why if I were straight we'd be married."

"I doubt that," she snorted. "You know me too well. Though, if it were the fifties and you weren't straight I could see a delightful lavender arrangement." Kyle's face was downright solemn which Kurt found made their dialogue all the more hilarious.

"I'd be an ad executive banging your flighty male hairdresser."

"And I'd be a alcoholic housewife banging anyone who'd look at me twice."

"We'd share custody of the pool boy and the gardener, of course."

"Of course."

"You two have watched _way_ too many _Mad Men_ reruns," Kurt giggled.

"Hey, you can never have too much Don Draper in your life," Dave said.

"I always favored Joan," Kyle said. "Though, admittedly, that may be the _Firefly_ fan-girl in me just fondly recalling Yo-Saff-Bridge."

"_Okay_, lost me on the second half of that," Kurt said.

Kyle clucked her tongue while Dave shook his head. "Sad, so sad.

"It was a sci-fi/western," Noah piped in earning surprised looks from all three of his companions. He shrugged, attempting to look nonchalant but failing miserably for his smirk. "Yo-Saff-Bridge was a kung-fu-geisha-space-hooker/con-artist. And fuckin' hot. Seriously."

"Well, color me impressed, there's a little bit of geek in the rock star," Kyle chuckled.

Noah beamed at her and opened his mouth to retort but Kurt clapped a hand over it. His best friend glared and he returned the look coolly. "Don't you _dare_ make that joke," Kurt warned him. "A) it's too easy and I'll be severely disappointed in you. B) I just want five minutes without innuendo, _please_."

"You're no fun," Noah said once Kurt removed his hand.

"So, while Baker Bear is busy with baking—" Kyle began.

Dave gave about _the_ blandest "woof" Kurt had ever heard as he sat his wine down and went over to one of their cupboards.

"Let's go on a tour," she finished. "I haven't shown the house off since right after we moved in."

"Whatever happens don't let her take you to the attic," Dave warned as he downed the rest of his wine. "She has towers of shoeboxes up there. _Towers_. If you don't know exactly how to navigate that shit you'll be buried under never-worn, pointy heels."

Kyle wrinkled her nose up at her best friend and pulled the Tapeña out of his reach when he tried to top off his glass. "Bottle's going with us; you don't need to imbibe while at the stove."

"You are _such_ a baby," Dave told her returning the scowl.

"_You're_ the one who never stops whining about my shoes." Kyle tossed back her hair and motioned to Kurt (and Noah, she was mostly looking at Kurt, though) with the hand holding the bottle. Giggling Kurt hoped off the stool, careful of his drink and hooked his arm through Kyle's. When Noah attempted to do the same she thrust the wine into his hands. Kurt really tried not to be a good friend and not laugh at that but it was _so_ hard when Noah almost dropped both the bottle and his glass. He ignored Noah's glare and hid his mouth by pretending to sip. "Come on, before he lays in on the rest of my clothes."

"Not enough hours in the day, Porthos," Dave called after them.

"So, are there really that many shoe boxes in your attic?" Kurt asked as they moved across the hall into one very long, large room brightly colored in greens and purple.

Kyle's mouth twisted like she was trying to play innocent but that caved to laughter quickly enough. "Ugh…maybe _half_ of it? Don't judge me."

"_Never_," Kurt assured her. "Though, honestly now I _do_ kind of want to see if they're arranged in towers. Playing hide and seek in a shoe maze has to be the most fun thing ever."

"What about building a shoebox fort?" There was a downright childish gleam to Kyle's eyes which Kurt was pretty sure _he_ shared after she spoke.

"_Yes_!"

Sadly, they did not make a shoe fort. They didn't even go up to the attic; it seemed like a very bad idea to climb the ladder up into it while they were drinking and Kurt was almost positive that he wouldn't be able to anyway. The tour of the house, though, went on as planned.

The guest room, or as Kyle jokingly referred to it _the playpen_, was humongous as was the bathroom attached to it. When Noah commented on that—commented being whistling loudly and swearing—Kyle explained it had been the master bedroom for the previous owner, an elderly friend named Bridgette Norman. That's how they'd acquired the house; Bridgette had left it to them when she passed on about three years beforehand. Now it was reserved for the occasional drunk (or duped) friend but mostly for Dave and Kyle's nephews. The color scheme of light woods and pastels fit for kids, Kurt thought, and even more so the whimsical artwork Kyle had chosen to decorate with.

At the end of the foyer, just beyond the staircase were two other rooms; the laundry room and a half-bath. On the door of the laundry room there was a painted sign with a list of ten rules inscribed on it. "_Dave can't enter, period_" was listed as rule two and repeated at five and nine. Kurt didn't say anything about it; he figured it would be much more fun just to tease Dave later.

The upstairs proved to be the most interesting part of the tour for Kurt and not because he appreciated the tasteful décor of Kyle's bedroom or of Dave's. Those were both very nice (he was kind of jealous of Kyle's canopy bed truth be told) but what really caught Kurt's fancy was the hallway separating the two bedrooms. Or more specifically its decoration.

The sconces and the buttery color matched the foyer below but where the foyer held paintings the upstairs hall held photographs. It was practically a giant album and Kurt was certain that was Kyle's aim.

The years that Dave had shared with his two best friends were chronicled upon the walls. Kyle's boyish haircut, Dave's baby fat, and Jude's emo glasses were emphasized in their freshman photo. Some later Halloween or perhaps a costume party (Kurt was judging by Kyle's considerably longer hair) the three posed in orange jumpsuits that with the nametags _Simon_ (Dave), _Kelly_ (Kyle) and _Nathan_ (Jude). In another they proudly showed off "FCKH8" shirts at what might have been a parade. Their wrists were pink, raw, and glistening with antibiotic cream in one picture, as they all held them out to show the fresh ink of their musketeer nicknames right above the pulse point.

Beyond the many, many photographs of the not-so-holy trinity there were numerous other shots of people, places and things Kurt supposed were important in Dave (and Kyle's) life. A strawberry blonde along with a darker woman who had the dewiest eyes ever and five other men made multiple appearances. An elderly woman with sparkling eyes beamed from her place between an equally happy looking Kyle and Dave; Kurt assumed that she was their Bridgette even before Kyle told him. There was a striking black and white portrait of a newborn carefully held in the arms of a man who couldn't have been Dave or Jude that Kurt really liked. The one that Kurt decided he liked best, though, was rather ordinary at first glance. At least as ordinary as a picture bursting with twelve smiling people could be.

Dave didn't look remotely out of place mixed in with Kyle's family and not just because their varied gene pool had produced few like features amongst the Queen siblings. If Kurt hadn't met Paul Karofsky, had he never known Dave before seeing that picture he would have assumed that the other man was Kyle's brother. He belonged with them—_to_ them, really.

Part of Kurt, a very small part, was jealous of Dave for all the love that he saw in that family portrait but it _was_ small. Enough that he could forget it and just be happy that Dave had been lucky enough to find people who loved and supported him like Paul and Michelle Karofsky should have. He missed the family he'd once had, that tight knit and too short-lived cluster of himself, his father, Carole and Finn. Kurt would _always_ miss that. But he didn't miss them so much that he was blind to the unit that had taken up that empty space in his heart as best it could. The years he had with Noah, Jules, Finn, Padma, Santana, and even Rachel and Quinn from their faraway posts in Manhattan were just as untradeable.

Once the tour was done Kyle sent Kurt and Noah back to the kitchen while she grabbed pajamas for them. They obeyed, though, it took a forceful tug on Noah's wrist to get him moving; he was staring through Kyle's open doorway like it was an unlocked bank vault. Kyle didn't take very long; Kurt doubted that they'd been chatting with Dave in the kitchen five minutes before she popped back in and said her selections were laid out on the guest bed.

There was a impish quality to Kyle's voice when she informed them but Kurt decided to ignore it. He was caught up listening to the story of how Dave met Bridgette anyway.

Dinner was amazing to put it mildly. Aside from the Thai peanut-pork stew—which may have been one of the best things that Kurt had ever put in his mouth (innuendo jokes were made by both Kyle and Noah when he made the mistake of saying that aloud)—there was spinach salad, and freshly baked pretzel rolls. The rolls were Dave's handiwork and they were absolutely perfect. The outside crackled, the insides were soft and warm, and Kurt couldn't picture anything better to sop up Kyle's stew with. For dessert Kyle made espresso and Dave brought out something called a _clafouti_, which he explained was a type of custard cake. Kurt was impressed both by the taste of the dish _and_ by the fact that Dave had apparently come to know more about French cuisine than he ever had.

Noah and Kurt were banished to the rec room once the meal was finished. Banished was perhaps a little strong, they both protested enough to be polite but found their way to a couch quickly enough. Kurt was nearly full enough for slight drowsiness to set in and by the way Noah slumped in his seat he assumed his best friend was in a similar situation. He perked up enough, though, when Kyle came in, turned on the TV and game console and tossed him one of the controllers.

"How do you feel about Portal Co-op?" she asked plopping down to his right.

"Joy, mostly," Noah replied with a slow grin. "Excitement. A little bit of wariness because it's _you_ asking."

"All of those are good reactions," she said. "I call Atlas."

"Shouldn't the guest get first pick?"

"I don't think so, no."

"You're not hot when you're rude."

"And _you_ aren't cute when you nag like my nana."

"So you _do_ think I'm attractive!" Noah all but exclaimed. "I _knew_ it."

Kurt had a feeling that Kyle's rolling eyes were going to be a permanent thing around Noah. Just like the exasperated sigh that followed when they flicked to him. "How do you live in a rolling box with him most of the year?" she asked.

Kurt shrugged. "I don't have tits. That probably helps with him being more bearable."

"Aw, is my bestie feeling neglected?" Noah teased. He scooted closer to Kurt on the sofa until Kurt was leaning sideways into its arm. Rubbing his head against Kurt's shoulder Noah smiled glibly at him, showing all of his teeth. "I'm sorry, Kurt, tonight I'll snuggle you right through the mattress."

One of Kyle's eyebrows went up in a way that was very reminiscent of Dave. "You know, to people who don't know you? That shit sounds a little bit rapey."

"How dare you!" Noah feigned shock _very_ well; it really would have impressed Kurt had he not been more focused on what a relief it was to get the sofa arm out of his ribs. "I would _never_ snuggle-rape my best friend! Ever! If anyone's going to molest someone in their sleep it'd be him."

Flushing, Kurt contemplated smacking Noah in the back of the head but he decided to go a more grown-up (and probably torturous) route. He flipped open his messenger bag and pulled out a worn gray case, dangling it in front of Noah with a smirk. The grin his best friend wore disappeared in an instant.

"Dude, _why_?" Noah moaned. "Why you gotta do this to me?"

"I'm only looking out for your health, Noah." There was no possible way that his tone could have been more saccharine. Unless he magically turned into Santana, of course. "I don't ever want you to be out of commission. Who would play rhythm for Jules then?"

"Okay…what's going on?" Kyle asked.

"Noah's supposed to wear glasses when he's watching TV—_which includes playing videogames_." He cut Noah's attempt at loop-holing down before his mouth could open more than a millimeter. "He has an astigmatism in one eye."

"Slight!" It was like Kurt had just accused him of robbing a bank in front of a cop. "A _slight_ astigmatism in my left eye. Not even the dominant one."

"I don't think eyes can be dominant," Kyle said. "But whatever, just put 'em on. If your one bad eye slows me down I'm gonna make you sleep in the garage."

Noah grumbled but yanked the case out of Kurt's hand anyway. Kurt didn't have much feeling either way when it came to eyewear, but he could understand why Noah didn't care for his glasses. The things were thick and a little bit clunky, really nothing Noah wanted to have associated with his style. But frames had been cheap and honestly it was _really_ hard to find a pair of glasses that said _guitarist_ let alone any that screamed _bad boy_. Still, Noah hated them, obvious by the pout as he adjusted them to settle comfortably on the bridge of his nose.

Kyle, in what Kurt supposed was a rare gesture for her, saw Noah's discomfort, and decided not to tease him. Even more shocking she was actually kind of nice.

"Those aren't that bad," she said reaching up to tap a temple. "I'd even call them cute."

"Wha—_really_?" Noah's jaw dropped almost as much as Kurt's.

"Sure," Kyle said. The right corner of her mouth twisted up and Kurt found himself downright relieved with the words that followed. "Put them on someone who isn't you and they'd be fucking adorable."

Her snark seemed to set better with Noah than her compliment and Kurt could see him relax with the jab. He stuck his tongue out at her and then turned to the screen which had come alive with Aperture Science logos and little robots. "Whatever, Baby, you already let it slip that you want my body."

"Body's not bad, Princess," Kyle returned smoothly. "It's the personality attached that bogs you down."

"Okay, I'm going back to the kitchen," Kurt announced as he pushed himself off of the couch. Kyle and Noah's witty repartee was entertaining—for the first two minutes but then it quickly nosedived into grating. He wasn't sure if it was a form of loathing or much more complex, caustic, pseudo-flirtation, but Kurt would rather stab himself in the thigh than listen in when he didn't have to. He paused by the TV and turned to point and glare at them both. "No bets. None. Do _not_ do anything remotely like that. I'm serious."

"Yes, mother," Noah drawled.

Kyle didn't even look up from the screen. "Sorry, Cutie, I make no promises."

Since it was her home and Kurt doubted that _he_ held any sort of sway in the end, he accepted that response to be the best he could hope for. He reasoned that Dave had probably warned her off of any particularly devious shenanigans anyway. Either way Kurt was heading for the kitchen, Dave, and (somewhat) sanity before the louder, more obnoxious innuendo-laden curses started to flow.

Across the foyer in the kitchen the radio had been turned back on though Dave wasn't serenading himself when Kurt walked in this time. He was humming and lightly bobbing his head to the beat while he diced strawberries. Kurt waited to alert Dave of his presence until there was a pause in the chopping; judging by that day's luck if he startled Dave the other man might lose a finger.

"What're you making?" It wasn't just a polite chitchat question. Dave had never mentioned that he liked to cook and, for whatever reason, Kurt found it fascinating. He found a lot about Dave fascinating, though.

Dave smiled as he looked up from the cutting board. "Hey. I'm making brownies. Balsamic vinegar strawberry fudge brownies to be exact."

"Ooh fancy." Kurt crossed his arms against the counter opposite of Dave and rested his weight on them. "Can I help?"

"Nah, I'm good," Dave told him. He pushed the strawberries he'd cut into a saucepan with the flat of his knife. "Really. Go relax, have fun."

"Okay, let me rephrase that; _please_ let me help." Kurt flashed Dave a half-smile when the other man raised an eyebrow. Gesturing over his shoulder toward the rec room, Kurt made a face. "They're _gaming_. Please don't send me back in there. I refuse to be responsible for my actions if I have to listen to their shit-talk for more than five minutes."

Dave laughed shaking his head. "Fine, fine, I concede to your point. It's kinda messy work though." He eyed Kurt's silky gray vest and pristine button-down none too subtly. For extra emphasis Dave then pulled at his batter-spotted apron and the smudged, rolled up sleeves of his Henley.

Kurt nibbled on his lower lip. "Um…would you mind if I turned the pajama shirt Kyle got out into a work shirt? And would _Kyle_ mind if I used her apron?"

"No on both," Dave said. "At least I don't _think_ she'd mind about the apron. And if she does, fuck it, pour some more wine down her throat and she'll be all forgiveness soon enough."

"Right," Kurt laughed. He pushed himself away from the counter and turned toward the archway. "I'll be right back then."

"Take your time," Dave called after him.

Two sets of pajamas were lying neatly folded on the bench at the foot of the guest bed when Kurt switched the light on. Both had a post-it note tamped on them, his name and Noah's written in Kyle's graceful hand. Kurt's pick was on the side closest to the door. Folding his vest and shirt Kurt set them on the pine wood dresser to his right before pulling on Dave's shirt.

It was far too big for Kurt, practically swimming on him and he doubted that the thing clung to Dave. His friend was tall, broad shouldered and solid but he was hardly made for a shirt that large. The bottom hung just below Kurt's thighs, the neck was wide enough to show his clavicle, and his arms looked like toothpicks sticking out of the short sleeves that went past his elbows. There was some sort of faded, scratchy design on the front that Kurt didn't bother studying, showing the garment had a little bit of age to it, as did the grayed off-white color of it. In short, it was not a pretty piece of fabric and yet Kurt found himself plotting to "accidently" take it home.

The shirt, for all its aesthetic compromises was comfortable. The fabric was soft, from both the cottony fabric that it was made of _and_ the wear of time on it. What Kurt liked best about it was the smell, though. Clean, crisp and sweet, Kurt didn't know what kind of detergent and softener that Kyle used but it was wonderful.

He was weighing the possibilities of stuffing the shirt into his messenger bag when he remembered that Dave was still in the kitchen expecting his help (even if he didn't need it). Kurt shook his head and put silly thoughts of shirt "borrowing" away. At least for the time being.

"Okay," he said walking back into the kitchen where Dave was still working on some strawberries, "let's get to work. Where's the apron?"

"Um…it's over—" Whatever directions Dave was going to give trailed off into nothingness as he looked up at Kurt. His eyes widened, his face started to turn pink and for a second Kurt had absolutely no idea what was going on.

And then Dave started laughing. Hard. He dropped his knife and put a hand to his mouth trying to stifle himself but that didn't work very well. Hiccups of Dave's amusement still leaked out between his fingers.

Kurt was far less amused, though he tried to be nice about it.

"Yes, yes, I get it," he sighed. Involuntarily his arms crossed his chest, hugging, as if to protect himself from something. "I look like a kid playing dress-up their dad's clothes. Not _all_ of us are built like mountains, Dave."

"No, no, that's—that's not it!" Dave protested in between giggles. Kurt was fairly certain there was moisture gathering at the corners of his friend's eyes. "You—the shirt! Look at your shirt!"

"_Your_ shirt," Kurt retorted, maybe a little bit of an edge in his voice. He wasn't as proud as he once was but getting laughed at _still_ wasn't something Kurt could take easily. "If there's something wrong with it it's not my—"

Reading upside down wasn't something that Kurt would call a strength of his, exactly. He didn't do it instinctively but when he had to, when his attention was piqued, it was as easy as reading normally. As Kurt ducked his chin down he noted that the rough design on Dave's pajama shirt was a cartoonish picture of a cabins, trees, and cars. Above that was an advertisement-like proclamation that read "Dick's Halfway Inn" in bold with the subtitles "Pull in for a stiff one!" and "cheap & clean" scattered below.

The fact that Kurt remained on his feet during the next five seconds, as all the blood in his body rushed to his face, he was sure was nothing short of a miracle. He looked over at Dave, who was still grinning but no longer cackling uncontrollably, helplessly dumbfounded for several moments. Suddenly Kyle's too-sweet tone earlier made _so_ much sense.

"Does—does Kyle secretly hate me?" was the only thing that Kurt could think to ask once he had the ability to speak again. "And, more importantly, _why_?"

"Kurt, _no_." Dave shook his head, sobering a little (but not enough to stop smiling) as he walked over to him. A big, warm hand settled on Kurt's shoulder with a comforting pat. "Dude, she doesn't hate you. Actually, her doing this is proof that she _likes_ you. For real; if she's tormenting you then you're her friend. It's just how she operates." His smile softened to something that was actually quite soothing. "Those pajamas _are_ mine you know. She gave them to me for my birthday four years ago. I opened them in front of everyone we knew _including_ our family." Hazel eyes traveled upward as Dave sighed. "Aiden and Mitchell had just learned to read too. There's nothing okay about a five-year-old stumbling over the word 'dick' and demanding to know why all the grownups look like they're choking."

Kurt blinked; knowing Kyle even as relatively little as he did that made sense. A lot of sense, actually. Though it did bring up a new question.

"Jesus Christ, what does she do to people she actually doesn't like?"

Dave chuckled and steered Kurt back toward the counter where the brownie ingredients were waiting, grabbing Kyle's apron from a hook by the dining room as they passed. He gestured to some measuring cups and handed the apron over to Kurt. "Get me three tablespoons of that balsamic vinegar, one tablespoon of sugar, and a teaspoon of tapioca flour. While you do that _I_ will regale _you_ with the tale of how Rod wound up in Guatemala with no passport."

* * *

**Author's Note Deux: **So, I hope you enjoyed this. I just want to take a minute to apologize to you guys for taking so long with this. School kicked my ass and I've recently been in an accident (I'm fine, car's gone but I'm fine) so I've had good reasons to stray from Comic Cons' update schedule. I'm working on Chapter 11 even now (first paragraph WOO!) and I hope to have it done soon. Keyword _hope_.

If I don't update by the holidays I hope you all are safe and happy for their duration!

Thanks so much for your support guys!

XOXOXO—Les


	11. A Happy SAD Gathering Part 2

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing.

**Author's Note:** This story has been an AU officially since around chapter four (episode "Night of Neglect"), I believe, and I stopped watching Glee after the "Prom Queen" episode. Nothing in Comic Cons takes from cue from anything Glee Cannon since season two was 3/4s finished and I'd very much appreciate no spoilers for the show being dropped in reviews. I really don't want to know what's going on with it any longer. Thanks for that and an even bigger thank you for reading and reviewing. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter.

Ooh, _and_ a thank you to winterswallows for her help, guidance, and annoying way of being right.

* * *

Kurt knew that Jude would be around the next day; just because he had pranked them did not mean that he was going to be banned from the party. Jude was the best friend of their hosts _and_ Kurt had to admit he hadn't done any real damage. He might never trust the other man's intentions to have been all lighthearted fun, much as rationality insisted Kurt get a fucking grip, but that didn't mean he was going to act like a child.

That didn't stop him from feeling disturbingly out of his element when Jude, along with three other people, walked through Kyle and Dave's door around four o'clock Sunday.

The previous evening had cocooned Kurt in an almost surreal sense of ease. He'd baked cupcakes and cookies with Dave, the two of them discussing their jobs in between making frosting and mixing up batter (they'd both turned into fans of the other's artistic accomplishments). After they finished with the treats, they'd joined Kyle and Noah back in the rec room; watching those two game was actually amusing when Kurt had someone to snark with. He enjoyed himself enough that somehow Kyle goaded him into playing Tekken Tag which he—_oh so surprisingly_—enjoyed. And that was saying quite a lot considering just how much he'd come to despise fighting games; he was shit at memorizing combos.

It had been fun with just the four of them. Maybe it was sort of crazy (and probably worth a good amount of reflection) but there was something very right about the four of them sitting together, laughing, and joking the night away. Kurt might have labeled the feeling as "homey" but that really would have been crazy. Wouldn't it?

But anyway; the cheerful contentment that had enveloped Kurt vanished when Jude came along. Honestly, it felt like his tongue was going to be stuck to the roof of his mouth all evening. And if it wasn't then it might do something stupid. Luckily, Kurt wasn't forced to communicate right away; the hosts were greeting their other guests first and foremost as the latter shucked off their winter layers.

"Davey!" a delicate looking strawberry-blonde pounced on Dave the second she came through the front door. She looked like she might be trying to cut off his air, the way she wrapped Dave's neck up with her thin arms and repeatedly kissed his face. Dave didn't seem to mind it in the slightest, however, if the smile he wore and the way he lifted her off the floor to spin in a playful circle were anything to judge by. Kurt's brain took a moment off of being preoccupied with Jude to just enjoy that scene; it was god damn adorable.

"Hey, Maggie, good to see you too," Dave said as he set her back down. He kissed her cheek and helped her out of her coat.

"Hey why does _he_ get all the love?" Kyle demanded. The sneer that she wore didn't quite reach her eyes nor did it color her tone.

"Because I'm more lovable," Dave teased sticking out his tongue. "_Duh_."

"Yeah, _duh_," Maggie mimicked as she took her coat. "It's like comparing a teddy bear to a crocodile."

"_Ooh_," the taller of the two yet-unnamed men laughed. He was black with a cleanly shaven head and teeth that could have been chipped straight out of an LED display. The grin he flashed lit up the room with a few thousand giga watts. "On SAD? Maggie, that is _cold_. I mean, it's true, but still, you don't have to say it out loud."

Kyle put her hands on her hips as she eyed her friends. "Wow? Really? Okay, thank you all for proving I _shouldn't_ have spent hours slaving away in the kitchen to make food for your ungrateful asses. I'm gonna go throw it all down the garbage disposal."

"No!" the other man, a swarthy brunette roughly Kurt's height and build, exclaimed. He launched himself across the foyer and onto Kyle's side. "_I_ love you! I do! Me!"

Kyle snorted trying to wriggle out of her friend's grasp. "Whatever, Darren, you just want to save the dip." She finally managed to disengage his flailing arms holding him away with a glare. Her nose wrinkled and intensified into a scowl as Darren grinned back at her. "Dude, did you start early with the booze?"

Darren giggled; making what Kurt _supposed_ was his version of an innocent face complete with batting eyelashes. Kurt thought he just looked vapid, though, and Kyle seemed to agree.

"He had a date lined up but got dumped last minute," Super-Smile told her. "Or at least he _thought_ he did." Annoyance flitted across his face as he glanced at Darren. "Creeper's been having coffee '_dates_' with some dude who thought he was a wedding planner."

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Darren!" Kyle exclaimed pushing him toward the rec room. "What'd you do, lead him on?"

"It was all going _fine_ until he decided to bring his hussy with him!" Darren protested. He stumbled over to Dave, or rather threw himself at Dave's chest, grasping at the taller man's t-shirt while posing like some stricken southern belle. Kurt found himself in immediate annoyance with Darren.

"Davey, what's wrong with me?" The pout on Darren's face was somewhat sickening. "Why can't I just find a nice, handsome guy, from a good family who's gonna take care of me, and keep me as his dirty little secret until I O.D. in the penthouse he keeps me in?"

Dave's face was only moderately sympathetic as he patted his friend on the back. "Because unfortunately we're from an era of unprecedented equal rights, Dare."

"Ugh, fuck that noise," Darren groaned. "I wanna be a rent bo—_hey_!" In less than a second Darren's woeful attitude, as well as his grip on Dave, was gone and he was standing in front of Noah.

"Hi, I'm Darren and _you_ are new." A flirtatious smile had replaced his pout as he leaned up into Kurt's best friend. Noah's eyes widened and his body automatically moved in the opposite direction of Darren's. Kurt was more than a little concerned (and quite sure that this was not a good omen for Noah) but at the same time he _really_ had a hard time not laughing. It was kind of nice to see his cocksure bestie getting thrown for a loop or two.

"Um, hi, Noah. I'm straight."

Everyone aside from Kurt, Noah, and Darren winced.

"_Dude_." Kyle shook her head though she was laughing; it was a little on the smug side. "Worst thing you could've said."

Kurt could tell that that was true, the way Darren's eyes had lit up a little when Noah spoke and he disregarded every signal coming from the other man about personal space. For a second Kurt wondered if he should play interference, maybe pretend Noah was a closet case and he was his jealous boyfriend. Whatever it took to keep Darren's hands out of Noah's pants, really. Help came first, however, from a surprising source.

"Darren, get your ass in the kitchen and help me bring out the dip," Kyle ordered.

Her words worked like a dog whistle. Immediately Darren's attention was off Noah and he was skipping toward the kitchen.

"Dip!" he sang—he actually fucking _sang_—like a five-year-old who'd heard the first tinkle of an ice cream truck's stereo. "Dip! Dip! Dip! It's my one and only love! I love dip!"

"Do not thank me," Kyle told Noah after Darren had rounded the corner into the kitchen. That smug smile of hers hadn't wavered; in fact, it intensified as she took in Noah's still wary features. "I just wanna see if he goes straight for your cock after he gets more liquid courage in him."

She turned to enter the kitchen herself, punching Jude lightly on the arm as she passed. "You're a dick," she informed the taller of her two best friends. Kurt was touched to hear genuine sternness in her tone. "Stealing Dave's phone and texting the wrong day was rude. SAD is not a toy, bitch, go apologize."

Jude made a face at her, rubbing his arm (which was _ridiculous_ since there had been no force to the blow). Kyle ignored that in favor of going into the kitchen and yelling at Darren to stop tasting the dip since his hips didn't need any more baggage.

There was the moment that Kurt had been dreading though he hadn't realized it. Standing face-to-face with Jude, he was suddenly tense all over again. It shocked Kurt a little bit, as he looked into those bright blue eyes, that he was still angry. Jude's prank had wormed under his skin and caused an itch that would just not leave. That itch wasn't relieved at all when Jude turned a sheepish smile upon him and Noah.

"Welcome to the Haven," Jude announced throwing his arms open, all innocence and good cheer. Kurt wasn't sure what bothered him more, the fact that Jude was being so nonchalant about this or how his smile didn't quite make it to his eyes. "I think you had fun anyway."

"We did." Noah spoke before Kurt could which in retrospect Kurt was thankful for; he might have said something sharper than the situation deserved. As he looked at his best friend, Kurt could tell by the tense line of his shoulders and the smirk on his face that there was at least _one_ person who got the way he felt completely. He loved Noah more than life itself right then, just for that sweet shred of solidarity and the reminder that it would always be there.

"Got an awesome dinner and night of gaming out of it," Noah continued. There was a devious glint to Noah's eye as he uncrossed his arms and continued to smile at Jude. "Kyle and I have the new high score on Portal Co-Op."

There was just a fraction of a second where Jude's face slipped to show what—surprisingly—might have been hurt. Kurt was half-sure that he imagined it though, since Jude was laughing when the other man who'd come in with Jude's group chimed in.

"Ooh, _burn_!" he laughed stepping forward and nudging Jude lightly in the side. "Kyle replaced you, Judy! Watch it," he smiled at Noah, that same brilliant, blinding white smile that had ignited the room when he first walked into it, and held out his hand. "Jude gets territorial, you know."

His inky eyes were as warm as his smile was when he extended his hand to Noah. "Neil, Neil Prescott. Nice to meet you. Both of you." He shook Noah's hand then Kurt's. His grip was firm and Kurt felt calluses on his palms. He also spied a few scars peppering the skin from wrist to knuckle, making him more than a little curious what Neil did for a living. "Noah," his eyes flicked to Kurt's best friend, "and then you've got to be Kurt."

"Not that he wouldn't know that anyway," Maggie piped up. She slid from her place tucked into Dave's side and over to them. "We saw Dorothy North during the New York leg of this year's Splinter Tour back in April and three years before that at the Mass Class Jam." Like Neil, there was no doubting the warmth in her eyes and the kind bow of her mouth. "Awesome sets both times, by the way."

"Oh, no," Kyle chuckled as she came back through the hall, one hand wound (painfully by all appearances) in Darren's hair and the other balancing a large plastic bowl her prisoner was gazing at with what could only be described as unadulterated lust. "Our resident hipsters know we've got rock stars in the house. This could be both entertaining and embarrassing for us all."

"Bitch, I actually _need_ my hipsterly glasses to read," Neil said. His voice was playful, though, and he took the bowl from Kyle like a gentleman. "Now, whether or not Angel-Face needs all that _vintage_ knitwear taking up two closets? _That's_ something we can debate."

"The fact that you've snooped around to know I have two closets full of it only says you _wish_ you did," Maggie teased. Her pink tongue darted out and Neil gnashed his teeth at her. She squeaked a laugh and backpedaled to Dave, curling into his side as if Neil were actually a threat to her.

Dave chuckled as he wrapped a big arm around her thin shoulders. "Don't be mean to Maggie, Neil," he said. "It's bad enough she's gonna get buried alive in all that wool and die in her walk-in."

Maggie made an indignant noise that morphed into a shriek of laughter. Dave hoisted her over his shoulder after she tried to tickle him.

"Piledriver!" Kyle cheered as Dave spun in a few circles with Maggie giggling and flailing over him like a human scarf.

"That's sort of overkill, dontcha think, Porthos?" Dave asked. "I'm down with waif tossing, though." And he crossed through the rec room to toss Maggie (lightly, really it was more like he sat her down with a little extra oomph) onto one of the many stacks of pillows and blankets that had been settled between the couches and TV.

"I approve this game." Kyle let go of Darren's hair and shouldered him as easily as Dave had Maggie (to be fair they probably weighed about the same). Unlike Maggie, Darren was very much dumped, landing on his hip with a bounce.

She made a face a Dave. "_Mine_ went farther than yours."

"Oh good, something else she can turn into a competition," Neil moaned while his friends collectively rolled their eyes.

Kurt scowled at Noah who had started to grin at him. "Don't _even_ think about it," he said. "You pick me up and throw me anywhere, Noah, and I tell Padma that you ate her yogurt last Thursday."

Noah paled a little bit at the threat. Padma was the sweetest, most wonderful person in the world—until you at her food out of the community fridge. At that point, you were a cockroach she'd try and stomp out; even Santana in all her glory didn't have the balls to try Padma on that one.

"You are _such_ a buzzkill."

The snarky reply that Kurt wanted to give never made it out of his head. One second he was frowning at his best friend and the next the world was upside down. He yelped and tried to grab onto the hem of his captor's tee. Something that proved impossible as they started to spin in circles.

"God dammit, Kyle!"

"Sorry, Cutie." She did not sound sorry at _all_. "_I_ don't know anybody named Padma."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

During the first movie, _Iron Man_ (Kyle and Dave had the power and they proclaimed this SAD "Marvel SAD"), Kurt found himself sitting between Maggie and Darren on the floor. Chatting as they sipped pink Moscato (from mugs: _adorable_!), nibbled homemade treats, and admired Robert Downey Jr.'s damn fine body Kurt knew Maggie was going to be a friend. She was, to put it succinctly, a doll. Not even five minutes speaking with her and Kurt felt almost as relaxed with Maggie as he did with Dave and Kyle. They exchanged phone numbers and agreed to meet for lunch sometime soon.

Darren was okay. Probably. He didn't say all that much after Kyle gave him a bowl of her special dip—which Kurt had to admit was as delicious as made out to be by Darren's little song—just for himself and a Sippy cup of champagne. He couldn't say that he was unhappy with that, though; the boy clearly had issues Kurt didn't want to get into.

After the break between Iron Man and _Incredible Hulk,_ the seating arrangements shifted. Maggie had curled herself in Dave's lap like a cat (complete with Dave frequently scratching behind her ears) and Darren had been forcibly wedged in between Kyle and Neil. He'd attempted to copy Maggie in _Noah's_ lap but Neil had grabbed him before he could do more than say "hello". That left Kurt to settle in between Neil and Dave.

In his new spot, Kurt found out that Neil was veterinarian for the local zoo hence the scars on his hands. He was in charge of their "Zoo-Born" program and the mamas he cared for—along with their little bundles of joy—were rarely amiable patients.

He also discovered that he liked superhero movies—at least when they were peppered with commentary by Dave, Kyle, and the rest of their little troupe. Mostly Dave.

"Dude, there are _no_ hot guys in this," Kyle grumbled as she popped a mini taquito and made a face at the TV.

"Hey, I _like_ scraggly Ed Norton, thankyouverymuch." Darren was half laying on Neil—who seemed unhappily resigned that this was going to be his role in life—speaking half into his friend's shoulder. Kurt was surprised that the other man was still relatively coherent after the six Sippy cups of Moscato and whatever he'd imbibed before showing up.

"Um, sorry, but the sloppy twink who's gone through five '_Daddy_' phases does _not_ have a good standing in the court of hot dudes." Kyle flicked the back of his head.

"Ouch!"

Neil held up a hand. "Kyle, hands to yourself. Darren, stop whining; she's right. You have shitty taste in men."

"Horrible," Maggie said sitting up just a little so that she wasn't speaking into Dave's knee.

Dave rubbed her back. "The worst."

"I'm embarrassed that you have a penis," Jude chimed in.

"The heart can't help what the heart wants!" Darren nearly smacked Neil in the face gesturing wildly. His friend was quicker, however, and caught Darren's wrist throwing it back at him. It was accompanied by a withering glare that, amazingly, had some embarrassment coloring the smaller man's face. At least for a second or two.

"Hey, hey, Kurt! Whatta you think of Ed Norton?" Darren was suddenly two-inches away, leaning awkwardly over Neil so that he could wave his hands in front of Kurt's face. Startled, Kurt jerked back bumping Dave's side and the very top of Maggie's head.

"Oh shit! I'm—"

"Darren, _knock it off_." Kurt's apology was cut off by Dave's low, rumbling warning. A thick arm rose up and over Kurt's shoulders to push Darren back. The motion wasn't too forceful; just Dave's palm firmly pressing against Darren's face, but it did the trick. Darren gained further momentum by Kyle yanking hard on his lounge pants.

All further antics were stifled as their hostess crammed a cookie into Darren's mouth. "You're gonna go to the naughty corner if this doesn't stop. And the naughty corner doesn't have booze. It'll just have the wall."

Holding his cup to his chest like it was an infant Kyle had just threaten to throw off a cliff Darren glared at her and chewed. He looked like an evil chipmunk, cheeks bulging with cookie and a eyes narrowed to needle points. Or well, as evil as Kurt was guessing a guy like Darren could look, which was not all that evil. Sadly-hilarious was probably the best he'd ever instill in the hearts of his enemies.

Still, it worked to keep him still—and more importantly quiet—allowing everyone else to slip back into some sense of peace. It lasted about five seconds.

"So what _do_ you think of Ed Norton, Kurt?" Maggie asked. She shuffled herself around so that she was sitting upright in Dave's lap and he shuffled himself just enough to accommodate her wishes. Though Dave's arm stayed relaxed across the edge of the sofa behind them—and right (okay not exactly but close) over Kurt's shoulders. He didn't seem to notice this at all and Kurt decided not to make things weird by mentioning it.

Yes, that was the reason.

"Uh…not really my type," Kurt told her, hoping his face was already pink from alcohol and Darren's startling him. "I don't like his chin. Or his smile. Really I don't like anything in that package."

"I concur," Dave said. "His smile is…_shifty_."

Kurt almost snorted like a piglet when he laughed. "Oh my God, it _is_!"

Dave grinned. "And I don't think Hulk 2.0, Mark Ruffalo, is particularly bangable either."

Kurt shrugged and waggled his hand in perfect imitation of Noah's mother. "Meh. I like him better than Norton but he's still not high on my list of hot superheroes."

The smile Dave wore grew and he raised a skeptical eyebrow at Kurt. "_You_ have a list of superheroes you'd like to fuck?"

"Oh, I beg your pardon." Amusement was definitely outweighing the mild indignation in Kurt. He nudged Dave's side with his shoulder. "Am I not geeky enough to have superhero crushes, Mr. Karofsky?"

"I _never_ said that." Technically true but Dave's smile gave away plenty.

Kurt pushed out his chin. "Challenge accepted, sir." He coughed delicately before holding up a hand. "In ascending order: Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, Ben Foster as Angel, Christian Bale as Batman, Michael Fassbender as Magneto, _and_, my number one, Daniel Cudmore AKA Colossus." Wiggling the fingers he held up Kurt smirked and relished (a lot, perhaps maybe more than he should have) the surprise one Dave's face. "_In your face_."

Kurt got to gloat for all of twenty seconds before Kyle jumped in.

"Credit for knowing all of those hotties, Cutie," she said. Elbowing Darren into leaning back so that Kurt could clearly see her, a slow ornery half-smile spread across her face. "_But_, aside from Mr. Bale those are all shoddy caricatures of amazing heroes."

"Yeah, the X-Men movies sucked cock and _not_ in a fun way," Jude said. Through the corner of his eye, Kurt could see that the shape of Jude's face was bland and indifferent. Except the eyes, Kurt could _swear_ there was a glint to those peerless blues and he actually had to bite the inside of his cheek to keep his hackles down.

"I'm not going to argue that," Maggie said, "because I never read the comics and I slept through the movies but Kurt's opinion is legit." Her little button nose wrinkled in a snotty way that Kurt believe he was going to soon worship. And not just because she was white-knighting for him, though he sincerely appreciated that. "We were talking hotness of actors portraying, not greatness of script."

"Ooh but can we?" Noah asked. Kurt was almost surprised to hear his best friend's voice; Noah had been virtually silent through both movies so far. "'Cause I just wanna bitch about how Rogue was apparently dating Iceman and Gambit was nowhere to be seen until that shitty Origins movie."

"_Yes_!" Kyle's exclamation sounded much like an orgasm and made Kurt jump a little. Right into Dave's side yet again. Total coincidence.

Kyle leaned forward on her knees so that she could look directly at Noah. "Oh. My. _GOD_. You don't even know how much that pissed me off!"

"You really don't," Dave said under his breath, eyes drifting towards the ceiling. His expression was that of a friend who had sat through many a pop culture tantrum over this particular subject and did not relish more. It made Kurt giggle and he apologetically patted Dave's shoulder when the other man made a face at him.

Noah, genuinely into the conversation, sat up himself. "Dude, didn't you just wanna stab the writers?" He waved his arms wildly. "Seriously, how, how, _how_ do you leave out the only non-douchey couple in that series?"

"_I_ _know_!" Kyle mirrored the arm waving and punctuated it neatly by slapping her fist into her palm. The smack made Kurt flinch yet again because, shit, did that sound painful. He had forgotten how Scary-Kyle was lurking around behind the girl he'd been giggling and shoe shopping with.

"Oh, sweet raptor on high, you've gotten her started," Neil moaned. His complaint was met promptly with a slap on the arm by Kyle.

"Hey! Do _not_ even think of belittling the epic romance that is Gambit and Rogue!" she growled poking his chest. "You just do _not_ understand. They. Are. _Untouchable_! The modern day Romeo and Juliet only awesome, because there are super powers involved! You just—_ugh_!" She ran a hand over her face in frustration and Kurt was reminded of one of his college professors attempting to explain gravity to a fundamentalist classmate. "For almost thirty years in-comic they could not touch. If he kissed her _oops_! Comatose, fucker, sorry about that! Horny? Gotta solve that problem on his own because her vagina was _lethal_. There was no fucking and he stayed. That is love. Lofty, soul-crushing, life-stealing, motherfucking-brain-killing L-O-V-E, cunt-pickle _love_! If it isn't then I don't know what is but I do know that that's fucking _beautiful_."

By the end of the rant Kyle's face was very pink, her eyes were slightly bulging, she was out of breath and there was a gleam to her eyes that was just straight up crazy. Like Santana on her period and out of chocolate-covered ibuprofen crazy. Yes, Kurt definitely needed to remember that there was a Scary-Kyle because he did _not_ want to ever have that look centered on him. It boded doom.

Unsurprisingly it did not appear to affect Noah like a normal person.

"If I start talking with a Cajun accent and go get some cards to throw around could we possibly discuss a kiss?" Noah was wearing that wide-eyed, earnest face that somehow made it even more difficult to tell if he was being serious or not. When it came to Kyle, Kurt was getting the feeling it was all very much serious and _that_ he could not see ending well.

Kurt groaned while Dave shook his head. He'd behaved _so_ well since the previous evening too.

Kyle, for her part, was a little less violent than her previous tirade would have led many to believe her being capable of. She tossed a cookie at Noah, hitting him dead in the forehead.

"Dude, _not_ cool. Romy is serious business. I am ashamed you'd use it like that." She shook her head at him.

"Yeah, you should try serenading her with Meatloaf," Jude said. There was something devilish in his smile, Kurt thought, and that instinct was confirmed as Dave choked a laugh into the collar of his shirt and Kyle blushed. Well, Kurt assumed it was a blush, honestly, he didn't think Kyle was capable of embarrassment.

"Jude!" she hissed. Another cookie was thrown and it bounced off of Jude's lower lip. "Shut your whore mouth!"

"Stop wasting cookies," Dave interjected. A matching smirk for Jude's played over his mouth. "And, Jude, stop taunting Kyle. You know we don't speak of her disgraceful love for cheesy rom-rock."

"I will murder you both in your sleep!" Her best friends laughed and Kurt was half-sure that they were suicidal; he didn't think that anyone who _wasn't_ would dare laugh at Scary-Kyle and her murder face.

Kurt was seriously thinking of hiding behind a couch (and by the uneasy looks being exchanged by Neil, Maggie and Darren, he didn't think he'd be alone) when Kyle's glare shifted. The slow, vicious curve of her smile was somehow more frightening than her murder-face.

"Hey, you know what I think we should watch _instead_ of superhero movies? _Home_ _movies_!" That had Dave and Jude sobered up so fast that Kurt almost missed it. What he did notice right away was that Kyle's widening smile made her teeth look just a _little bit_ pointy. "Noah, Kurt, would you guys be interested in seeing how moved Jude is when he hears '_Soft Kitty_'?"

"Kyle…" Jude's voice came as a squeak that Kurt enjoyed a lot more than he probably should have. A lot.

"Or, hey what about Dave on a stripper pole while lip syncing in Greek?" She grinned right at Kurt for whatever reason. He noted Dave flushing bright red beside him. "There was leather involved too. You would not believe the lengths he went to in college to keep his Virgin Whisperer status on campus."

The flood of images that filled Kurt's head when she said that, he had to admit, were hardly unappealing. In fact, he found the idea of Dave in leather downright intriguing. On an entirely aesthetic level, of course. His cock had _not_ twitched over it. Not even a little.

Kurt glared down at his pants and prayed to karma that he simply looked like he was trying to avoid getting involved in whatever genocide Kyle was going to unleash. By the fact no one looked at him he figured that he was safe.

"Okay, okay, mercy!" Dave held up both hands in submission. "We'll never mention the 'M' word again. Ever."

"We're sorry," Jude said when Kyle only raised an eyebrow at them. "_So_ sorry." He swallowed hard; those gigantic eyes of his were somehow even bigger when filled with fear. Yeah, Kurt was _totally_ reveling in the other man's apprehension. He regretted nothing.

With a whimper Jude added, "Please don't bring out '_Soft Kitty_'."

"Yeah, don't bring out '_Soft Kitty_', Kylie." Darren was perhaps the least likely person Kurt would ever have guessed would come to someone's aid. He didn't strike Kurt as mean or anything just…dumb. A little self-involved too, perhaps. Just undeniably not the type to help out.

And Kurt saw he was right on the money about that.

"I'm totally for you putting that video of Dave the Dancing Bear up, though." Darren grinned while Dave's jaw dropped in betrayal. The smaller man shrugged continuing to smile unabashedly at his friend. "What? You look good in leather pants, take it as the compliment it is, slut."

"_Hey_." The murder-face returned along with a sharp smack right to the back of Darren's head. Darren yelped like a puppy, instantly folding both arms over his head. Kurt couldn't blame him, that one had _cracked_ a little. "No one tortures the bear or the bisexual but _me_."

There was a moment or two of silence that teetered on the precipice of being awkward, mostly thanks to the resurgence of Scary-Kyle. Luckily, there was someone in the room who was not affected adversely by that facet in the slightest.

"Hey, does my opinion on seeing Dave in leather pants count for anything?" Noah asked with half of the cookie Kyle had thrown at him in his mouth. He leered playfully at Dave. "Come on, man, share. I've rocked 'em myself we can compare the restriction that shit has on our junk. I'll tell ya, it was _not_ as terrible as I originally thought it would be."

Kyle started to say something, something very wicked if the gleam in her eyes was anything to judge by, but Dave cut her off.

"If you love me like you claim to, Kyle Olivia Queen, you will _not_ let that shit back out to see the light of day ever again. I mean it!"

Sighing dramatically, Kyle waved him off. "Fine, fine. Your transgressions on a stripper pole will stay on my external hard drives. Spoilsport."

"Yeah, spoilsport!" Darren was slurring now, somehow having slunk from his cage between Kyle and Neil. There was a new bottle of Moscato in his hand, already half empty.

"Oh, Jeebus, Darren!" Neil exclaimed as he jumped up to grab his friend and wrestle the bottle from him.

Kurt said nothing but he rather agreed with Kyle and Darren.

The rest of "_The Incredible Hulk_", all ten minutes of it, passed without much more excitement. Neil caught Darren, he was put in the naughty corner, and everything else was quiet. The rec room cleared for ten minutes or so between movies and Kurt, being distracted by both how comfortable Dave's side was and thumb-wrestling with Maggie ended up at the end of the bathroom line. He hadn't drank all that much champagne but he had cut each mug of alcohol with about two bottles of water. After two glasses of wine and no mid-movie breaks, Kurt just barely made it in there before his bladder exploded and he died of embarrassment.

When he returned to the rec room (feeling far lighter) not much had changed. Except that Jude was sitting where _he_ had been, tucked even closer to Dave's side with a leg thrown over Dave's calf. And he was pasting sticker hearts (where the fuck those had come from was anyone's guess) all over Dave.

Jude had been rubbing Kurt wrong all day. Hell, he'd been rubbing Kurt wrong since very close to the moment that they'd met. Still. This one really snuck up Kurt's spine and just sadistically_ scratched_ its way down. And, _oh_ how much more did it needle when he _knew_ those bright blue eyes had glanced his way and Jude smirked.

Kurt wanted to march right over there, kick Jude in the ribs, and demand what in the fuck his problem was. He wanted to know why Jude insisted on being such a prick when he hadn't done anything. If Kurt had been mean to Dave, had been a spiteful, cruel little bitch about their past, Kurt would have understood the other man's animosity. But he had done nothing even remotely like that; on the contrary he had done his best to bury every vestige of pain that Dave associated with himself, Lima, and Kurt.

More than anything, though, Kurt wanted Dave to see what a cunt his best friend was being so that Kurt didn't wind up looking like one himself if Jude kept pushing at his buttons.

Dave did _not_ see. Understandable, Jude was one of the two most important people in his life _and_ his eyes were covered by mismatched heart stickers, so metaphorically and literally, he was a tad blind. Kurt still had someone on his side, though, even if it wasn't who he wanted (or expected).

"C'mere, Cutie." Kyle came up behind him and took hold of his wrist so fast she almost made him trip. She steadied him, though, long enough to drag him over to one of the pillow piles where Kyle dropped and took him down with her. Kurt landed haphazardly against her, right check mashed against Kyle's left boob.

This position was, evidently, not a problem for Kyle and Kurt's own reticence with it faded when her knuckles began smoothing up and down his back. Actually, it fucking evaporated like a puff of smoke.

"Oh, my god, boobs _are_ good pillows." He hadn't meant to say it out loud but he didn't regret it much once he had. Especially when Kyle chuckled and that vibrated right into him.

"So I hear," she said, continuing to work her fingers against tense little wads of muscle in his sides and back that Kurt hadn't even known existed until Kyle got to them. She smiled down at him, a soft crook of her lips that was sweet without being dopey. Kurt didn't think he'd ever seen that smile on her before, at least not directed at him, and it comforted him more than what probably made logical sense.

Kyle got it. Saw that her friend was being a twat and was, in her own way, apologizing for it. Kurt wasn't sure if he was ever exactly going to get Kyle—that was a gift only Dave seemed to possess—but he was sure now that he liked her. He was sure now that he was going to count her as a friend, a _real_ one, not just someone he'd acquired because Dave and he had crossed paths again. Almost as importantly he now had an ally that he could trust to keep tabs on Jude, maybe reign him in even every once in a while.

Kurt's peace lasted maybe twenty seconds.

"And you _really_ play guitar?" Somehow, before he even looked up, Kurt knew he was going to see Darren clinging to Noah's bicep like a teenage groupie. "Like, for a living?"

Noah smiled down at him. Kurt recognized that smile, it was the one he pasted on when talking to the label and fans, the polite I'll-suffer-through-this-for-the-team one. Kurt was sort of impressed with him.

"Yeah, yeah for a living," he replied patiently sitting down on one of the couches. Darren perched on his knee and while Kurt noticed Noah's eye roll, his best friend made no attempt to shove him off.

"_Darren_—" Kyle started to reprimand her friend but Noah stopped her with a raised hand and headshake.

"I got this, no worries," Noah mouthed at her before turning attention back Darren who was rubbing his stubbled head and giggling. "So, go on and tell me what a personal assistant to the Head of an Events council _actually_ does, man."

"Ohmigod, you would be _so_ surprised!" And thus began Darren's long, slurred description of his job, all of which after that point Kurt decided to tune out. Because _he_ was not Noah and had not volunteered to entertain a clearly unstable man who wanted to fuck him. He became too preoccupied with Kyle, the marvelousness that was her rubbing his back and Robert Downey Jr. once more.

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

It took about twenty minutes into Iron Man 2 for the Tylenol PM Noah had hidden on a dip laden chunk of bruschetta for Darren to pass out. Luckily, he hadn't been molested much while waiting; Darren didn't get to do much more than stroke his thigh and wink suggestively a few times. Once the smaller man was out Noah set him up on the couch, tossed a blanket over him, and headed to the kitchen to get a beer. Champagne wasn't bad but after having Darren grind suggestively in his lap for way too long, he just wanted something more familiar.

The problem was that he'd forgotten where Dave said the beer was so he stood awkwardly in the middle of the kitchen for a few minutes, trying to remember.

"Wine cellar closest to the dining room." Kyle said breezing past him and making him jump. She smirked at him and went over to it herself, taking out two glass bottles. "For future reference. Heads up." She tossed a bottle over to him and he caught it with one hand, praising God for the little miracle of not fucking that cocky catch up when he did.

"_Wake Up Call: Imperial Coffee Porter_," he read the label in his best snooty accent. "Coffee beer?"

Kyle shrugged, producing a bottle opener from a cellar drawer. "It's good, trust me. I don't drink shitty beer." She popped the cap from her drink then walked over to do the same for him.

"Far be it from me to argue with the hostess," he chuckled and raised the bottle to his lips.

It was good, that much he couldn't argue with. _Very_ good in fact. But of course his taste in beer had never evolved much past Heineken and his personal alcohol preference had been whiskey since he was sixteen.

"Dude," he said after his first swallow, "s'there _chocolate_ in this?"

"Yep," Kyle said. She leaned back against the small island and took a long drink herself. He thought she looked like a guy when she did it, which somehow made him like her more. Even _if_ she'd put him in pink pajama bottoms and a shirt that said had "princess" plastered under a tiara on it.

"So what'd you slip Darren?" she asked. For a split second Noah panicked thinking he was in trouble but that faded when Kyle continued. "Neil prefers Ambien; knocks his skinny ass out for at least twelve hours."

"I didn't have anything that fancy to work with. 'Sides all he's been drinking tonight I didn't want to chance it. Figured you wouldn't like it if I made your friend OD so I stuck with Tylenol."

She snorted. "Considering the friend is Darren and he's been a fucking pill tonight I don't think I would've held it against you. Sorry about him, by the way. He's…_special_."

"Understatement," Noah chuckled. "But it's fine. I had a kid jump on stage down in Orlando who put her hand down my pants." He shook his head and smiled at the memory. Santana had seen it happen and marched right out on the stage to grab the girl by the hair and drag her to security. Aside from nearly falling off the stage and being an unwilling pedophile (he refused to take responsibility for that surprise boner) it was hilarious to look back on.

Kyle made a face. "Eww. Who does that shit?"

"Fourteen-year-old girls. With a lot of issues, I'm guessing."

"Touché, sir."

Several moments of silence passed as they stood in the kitchen sipping their beers. Nothing awkward or forced but Noah couldn't say he wasn't a little on edge. There was always a part of him that never relaxed completely when he was around Kyle, which was just another reason he liked her. The same reason he'd liked Santana, Quinn, and _especially_ Lauren. Women who called him on his shit ran few and far between in his life. Noah got how some thought of it as a masochistic tendency but…He just liked being dealt with honestly. Though masochism couldn't be ruled out.

"Did you have a question?" Kyle's voice jarred him a little; apparently, she noticed him staring at her. She had an eyebrow raised at him—an eerily similar trait she shared with Dave that neither of them probably ever spotted—and smirk in place.

He felt like a teenage when she looked at him like that. A big mess and a liar hiding behind his swagger, talk, and hard stomach. Noah liked that, more than liked it, if he was being truthful with himself. He needed it.

There were a couple thousand questions he actually did want to ask her. The most pressing being "Can I just kiss you already?" and followed closely by "The Friend-Zone? For real?". Knowing Kyle, and he _did_ feel like he knew her, she would tell him the truth.

So of course he chickened right the fuck out.

He grinned at her, putting all of his teeth into it. His best cavalier pose. "So, Meatloaf?"

Kyle made a face. "Oh, fuck you!" She shook her head and took a drink. "Man, I am gonna _murder_ Jude."

"Hey, I'm not making fun, I dig a little Bat Out Of Hell myself from time to time." None of that was untrue in the slightest but he still felt like a jerk for copping out.

"Uh-huh."

"I _do_ and I resent that you'd question my love for Mr. Aday." He cocked his head to the side, eying her over the head of his bottle. "Why exactly don't you want people to know, though? _If_ _I can ask_." He tacked on the last sentence quickly. Kyle did not strike him as the type who relished spitting out her secrets. Or at least any more than the average person did.

That was one thing he seemed to be right about. Kyle's nose wrinkled and she looked away, toward the window. Noah was pretty sure that she wasn't going to answer and his mind was already stumbling over witty things to feed the silence with when she spoke.

"It's just not a very me thing, you know?" She flicked her bottle cap across the countertop. "Eight brothers and aside from Maggie—and Darren," they both snorted at the jibe, "—all my friends are dudes. Would _you_ have guessed all on your own that I liked shit as sappy as _Meatloaf_?"

The speed and organic nature in which Noah responded was surprising to himself and, he was betting, to Kyle as well. He shrugged meeting her gaze squarely. "I wouldn't guess a lot about you, Kyle. Kinda stopped trying after you handed me my balls a million times the first time we met. Meatloaf may be sappy but that doesn't make you less of a badass."

Kyle stared at him for several long moments, most of which Noah was once again sure he'd said the stupidest thing possible. He'd opened his mouth to spew out some sort of half-hearted joke but Kyle cut him off again.

"That's…thanks," she said. The right corner of her mouth curled up and he knew she meant it.

For a second or two Noah felt brave, like he had a chance to man up and say what had been on his mind for a while now. His gut ordered him to follow it, to stop being so spineless and just lean over and swipe some hair back from her eyes. Her really, really, inky blue eyes that saw through everything, that scared him shitless, and filled him with a pathetic amount of hope every time that they met his.

Noah bailed again.

"So…did it hurt?"

Kyle stared at him, her Dave-look popping back up. "Uh…_What_?"

"When you fell from heaven?" He hated himself when he said it. A lot. But he stuck with it; if nothing else Noah could fucking commit to an act.

He got lucky; she didn't roll her eyes and walk away disgusted by his smarm. She almost spit out her mouthful of beer but that was as horrible as it got.

"Oh my god," she told him. Still laughing she leaned over to punch his arm. "Christ, did the lack of innuendo in a conversation terrify you _that_ much?"

"Yes. Yes it did." He sincerely hoped that came off as a joke because _wow_ the truth behind that was killing him.

Luck was with him for once, Kyle practically doubled over as she giggled. "Dude, you're the _worst_."

"Happy to be of service."

"Yeah, okay," she said shaking her head at him still. "Well, I think that fills my sharing-feelings quota for SAD. I'm gonna go back to your twink."

"Speaking of, how has Kurt earned boobliges exactly?" Noah tried _very_ hard not to sound petulant. He wasn't so sure that he succeeded in that.

"By not being desperate for them," she told him. Standing straight Kyle started back across the hall into the rec room. She paused at the kitchen arch and looked over her shoulder at him. "_And_ he put up a good fight during Tekken. Look into that, sloppy thumbs."

"Ooh that was harsh," Jude's voice interrupted Noah from watching Kyle's ass as she walked away. He jumped, finding Jude was standing at the arch between the kitchen and dining room, Dave at his side. The broader man was doing his best to pick all of the stickers his thin friend had covered him with and swiping at the residue with what looked like a moist towlette. It didn't look like pleasant process, evident by the hiss of pain Dave gave when he ripped one off of his eyebrow.

"Jude, leave him alone," Dave ordered with a hard nudge of his elbow.

"What the—_how long have you two been standing there_?" he demanded.

"Same time you started looking all lost and lovelorn," Jude supplied. "And '_when you fell from heaven_'? Fucking hell, what shorted in _your_ brain?"

"_Jude_." Dave's voice was an actual growl; Noah couldn't tell if it was for him or the sticker he'd just probably lost eyelashes to but he appreciated it nonetheless. It did the job and made Jude blush. Sympathetic hazel-gold eyes flicked over to Noah. "He kinda has a point though, man. That was…special."

Noah sagged against the counter, scrubbing a hand across his face. "I don't know! It's gotta be the boobs. They just…they _blind_ everything else! They're black holes of attention."

Dave snorted, "Only if you put your head in there to motorboat."

"…_Why _do I think you're speaking from experience when you say that?"

With a shrug, Dave continued to pick stickers off as he answered. "It was a dare and we were all pretty drunk."

Noah really couldn't help the awe that leaked into his voice. "What was it like? Was it warm and wonderful?"

"Um, again I was _drunk_ and also? As a gay man, I really don't think I could give you a satisfactory description of the things _you_ would care about. Ask Jude; he actually likes chicks."

He almost dropped his beer. "_You did it too_?"

Jude shrugged as if it was the most mundane thing in the world and Noah just barely stopped himself from trying to choke the other man. "Well, I had to find my keys. Quickly, before they disappeared into the abyss forever." He mimed the dangerous quest into cleavages unknown.

"_Dude_!"

"Seriously though. I'm like her brother. If I boner-ed up for Kyle I'd kill myself because there'd be no more living with the uncleanness of it all."

"Still, man. You gotta have some general opinion."

"I dunno," he pondered. "I'm a small tit guy. Anything above a C cup is a little intimidating for my tastes."

"Yeah," Dave said. "That _is_ true. Basically, the more a girl looks like a guy and vice versa the more attracted he is. It also helps if they look like him too." Dave smirked over at his best friend. "Judy's a closet narcissist."

A noise that was halfway between a squawk and a growl tumbled past Jude's lips when his jaw dropped. "Could you show me just a _modicum_ of respect? I taught you to deep-throat, jerk, it's the least you could do."

"It's true though."

"Yeah, but that's not the point. Your tone was snippy, Athos. _Snip-snippy_."

"Okay." Noah stood and held up his hands. "Well, thank you for the emasculation, guys. I'm going to go back to the twink I drugged, make sure he doesn't stop breathing, 'scuse me."

"Oh come on!" Jude called after him. "Don't you wanna hear why Neil doesn't like oral sex? That story is awesome!"

"_Jude_!"

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Kurt was barely awake by the time he made it to his room around two in the morning. A day of eating fatty foods and drinking champagne made every movement lethargic. It also made him quite resolved to visit the gym the next day and spend a rounds on the elliptical. The thought of how long he was going to have to go at it before he worked off all of the chocolate, bacon, and cheese that he'd ingested was already making him sore.

Aside from the one spike of Jude being a jerk Kurt would say that this particular Valentine's Day had been one of the better ones he chose to celebrate. He'd made new friends, eaten great food, and watched good movies. Honestly, he couldn't think of anything that could have made it all better.

And then his phone buzzed.

He was going to ignore it; he was tired and a little talked out. Glancing over at the screen, though, he saw that it was a text from Maggie and he had to check it out.

Maggie had shared a cab home with him, Noah, and Jude (her building was right down the street) making the ride _far_ less awkward than it would have been. At nearly two A.M. he feared she might have gotten into trouble on the final leg of the ride all by herself. Plus, she'd been as tired as he was; he couldn't think of a good reason for her to text him tonight.

She wasn't in trouble, at least not yet, but later (after he could think again) he knew she was going to be in it deep with a certain someone.

**[From Maggie 1:49 A.M.] Since my name isn't "Kyle" I think that means Dave didn't forbid **_**me**_** from showing you **_**anything**_**.**

**Enjoy, Hon! **

**XOXOXO**

**Maggie**

Attached was a video clip that Kurt of course clicked immediately. His curiosity was rewarded with a less than HD, but still watchable, take of a much younger Dave in some very tight leather gear as he danced to some shitty pop song with the aid of a stripper pole.

Kurt fucking _loved_ Maggie.

* * *

**Author's Note Deux: **I really hope you enjoyed this chapter guys and I'm sorry these updates keep taking an eternity. I've been writing this story one whole year as of yesterday (Happy Birthday Comic Cons 'Verse!) and I still love it. Unfortunately, I still have real life to contend with. Here's to hoping that, while I do love this story, it doesn't hit the two-year in-progress mark.

P.S.

Happy Valentine's Day To My Fellow Karofskians!


	12. The Men In Her Life AKA Buffyisms

**Disclaimer:** I do not own Glee and I make no money from this artistic venture, it is done for the pure enjoyment of writing.

**Author's Note:** This story has been an AU officially since around chapter four (episode "Night of Neglect"), I believe, and I stopped watching Glee after the "Prom Queen" episode. Nothing in Comic Cons takes from cue from anything Glee Cannon since season two was 3/4s finished and I'd very much appreciate no spoilers for the show being dropped in reviews. I really don't want to know what's going on with it any longer. Thanks for that and an even bigger thank you for reading and reviewing. I sincerely hope you enjoy this chapter.

Ooh, _and_ a thank you to winterswallows for her help, guidance, and annoying way of being right.

* * *

Kyle didn't really believe in anything. Okay, that was only half true; she believed in a few things. She had a scary, unwavering faith in Dave and in Jude that she could understand people labeling as insane. Sometimes the three of them _were_; fuck, their friendship had been based in a whirlpool of juvenile chicanery and trauma.

Her parents weren't devout people. Her mother described Catholicism as heritage rather than religion (one that should be viewed with contempt) and her father had had his bar mitzvah strictly to irritate Grandma Helen's Anglican sensibilities. Making PopPop Isaac proud probably played in there, sure, but it was no secret that her dad studied the Torah mostly just to upset his control-freak mother. So, spiritually, she really wasn't much of anything and the idea that magic existed was goddamn laughable.

No matter _how_ badly she wanted her Hogwarts owl.

That never seemed to diminish the respect with which she treated the rituals in Grann Variola's (her mother's grandmother) cookbook. Grann Variola's cookbook was full of hedge-witchy stuff like harefoot poultices to protect from bad dreams, buckwheat bread to bring luck in money, and other "spells" that Kyle absolutely didn't believe in. Still, there was no denying she felt better after she made a pot of her great-grandmother's cure-all garlic soup.

Part of it had to be the immune boost from the garlic (that was science and she accepted that no question) but, secretly, Kyle also thought that there might be something to be said about the words scrawled on every page of the old book sitting in her parents' kitchen.

"_Lanmou se toujou engredyan prensipal la_" or "_Love is always the main ingredient_".

The older she got, the more truth that Kyle saw in those words. It wasn't just about how you prepared a meal for people you cared about, it was about how you dealt with them period. Raptor Jesus on high, she _knew_ how cheesy that sounded but she'd stand by the thesis come hell or waters high. Even if she never told anyone about it.

Point being Kyle, crude and immature as she could be, understood that when you gave a shit about someone, you had to act like you did. She couldn't just snipe or growl at them when they were being stupid, at least not right away. Kyle tried to keep that in mind when she went to see Jude a few weeks or so post Valentine's Day. She even brought garlic soup.

The door was unlocked and Jude was curled on his big faux-suede sofa, cocooned in a blanket, just as she expected. The yearly batch of bugs was going around; she and Dave had caught the shit first and spent almost a week recouping. Bryce, Claire, and Neil had followed suit and now it appeared to be Jude, Maggie, and Rafe's turn. Vince, the lucky bastard, wouldn't get it. That asshole _never_ caught anything. Except crabs—pre-Claire Vince had been a dirty, dirty, (not to mention foolish) slut. The fact that he came out of it all with no other STDs was nothing short of a miracle.

"Hey, Mr. Pukey," she greeted him cheerfully. Out of the corner of her eye, Kyle spied his cats darting from the room once they saw just who had come through their owner's door. Mean as it may have been, she had to smile. Fuck those ankle biters.

Jude rolled like a caterpillar to look mournfully up at her. Had she not been well-acquainted with her friend and his penchant for playing up aches and pains, she really would have felt sorry for him. Jude Maxwell Bower was king of pathetic looks.

"M'not Mr. Pukey anymore," he informed her with a sniffle. Kyle was a good friend and resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "'M Mr. Really-Sore-And-Cold, now."

"Aww." She reached down to ruffle his sweaty head. "Poor little, fella. Well, do you have the strength for some garlic soup?"

"Will you feed it to me?"

That time she didn't resist an eye roll. "Not a chance, Aramis."

"Hmm…yeah, I still want the soup." He rolled, wobbled, and wriggled into an upright position to where he could get his arms out. "And some tea?" The light in those bush-baby big eyes morphed from pathetic to hopeful. "_Please_?"

"Since you asked so nicely." She pressed a quick kiss to Jude's forehead before standing.

Kyle knew her way around Jude's kitchen probably better than he did. Unlike Dave, her other best friend had never been fascinated by the chemistry of cooking and ninety percent of the food that went down his gullet was takeout. What few homemade concoctions that he ate were almost all Dave and Kyle's doing with the occasional assist from Maggie.

In hardly any time at all she had steaming soup and tea ready. Kyle sat both down on the coffee table that Jude, despite his weakened state, had managed to drag (with quite a bit of effort) closer to the couch.

"Do _not_ try them yet," she ordered as she plunked down beside him. "Hot. _Hot_. Bad, Judy."

Jude gave her a look of pure disdain. "Fuck you. I'm not five. _Or_ Darren, I have some common sense, thankyouverymuch."

"I'll believe that when I see it." She smirked and leaned back on the couch, crossing her legs as she did. It earned Kyle a middle finger and another peevish face.

They sat quietly together for several moments as the soup cooled, watching the cartoons flicking across Jude's TV. There was nothing tense about the silence but Kyle was fairly certain that Jude had picked up on her wanting to talk. He was as ingrained in her head as Dave was, and probably a lot more aware than their Athos to boot.

Because of that and because she knew that directness was the best tool to use with Jude. She did wait until his soup was gone and he'd started in on his tea before she spoke, though. If nothing else, Kyle was a good caretaker—when she deigned try.

"I like Kurt." She tilted her head up against the back of the couch so that Jude's eyes had to meet hers. "And I like Noah. Dave does too. Everybody does, really."

Jude's mouth thinned ever so slightly and his gaze slipped down to the mug of tea cupped carefully in his long fingers. Since he wasn't being outright irritable (yet), Kyle pushed on.

"Dave's felt better, you know, since they met up again." Kyle picked absentmindedly at a miniscule tuft of lint on the knee of her jeans. "It's helped him put a lot of his old shit to rest."

"_We_ helped him put his shit to rest," Jude said. There was nothing in his voice that was quick, or hostile or even a little bit angry. His tone was all matter-of-fact and normal.

But Kyle saw the tiny glint of resentment skulking in his pupils, nearly indistinguishable as it burrowed down.

"_We_ saved him," he continued and Kyle let him. "_We_ were the ones who cried with him and held his hand and made sure he knew he was safe." His voice rose just a bit and Kyle caught his hands trembling around his tea. "You and I were the ones pushing him to fight for his inch and checking his dresser for pills. Kurt made the half-hearted attempt to 'help' Dave by telling someone else he was gay, confronting him in a public place, and then somehow expecting a frightened animal not to act like a frightened animal."

Jude's voice was tight when he finished and his eyes blazed a bright, unyielding ice-blue. Kyle understood his anger, in a way. It was the whole reason she'd been nice to Kurt in the beginning; she had to protect Dave. Even after nine years and the man he'd evolved into, that was _still_ a top priority for her. She couldn't fault Jude for being afraid that Kurt's reappearance in Dave's life would result in their boy hurting, not when _she_ had anticipated the same thing.

However, Jude's protectiveness was a mask and they both knew that.

"You're oversimplifying a really convoluted thing, Jude," she told him almost quietly. "Kurt was seventeen too; don't tell me you would have had any sort of answer for shit that intense when _you_ were that age. I sure's fuck wouldn't. Maybe you could put a circuit board together and understand physics equations but you _weren't_ more mature than anyone else."

The heat and anger in Jude's face staggered her. "Jesus, fuck, Kyle, when did you join the Kurt Hummel fan club?"

"Jude." Her voice took up a knife's edge that Jude knew better than to fight. His white-hot glare dropped down to his hands. He abandoned his tea to the table and crossed his arms. Probably wise, they'd had "discussions" that'd come to shoving before; he seemed to get that Kyle would never forgive him if he threw tea on her, even in the heat of the moment.

She licked her lips and took a breath before she started again. "The only fan club I'm in is the one dedicated to Dave's happiness. I'm a lifetime fucking member and I wish you'd think about joining."

Jude exploded as she knew he probably would; at least as much as a sick man wrapped in a down comforter could explode.

"That isn't fair!" He leapt back like she'd slapped him. Arms up and waving his eyes burned against hers. "How have I—"

"_**You**__ let __**him**__ go, Jude_." Five little words, insignificant as they might seem, deflated her best friend of all of his anger in less than a second. His waving arms flopped to his sides and his ass hit the couch. Kyle felt something sharp winding up from her belly and radiating beneath her sternum; she hated herself when she had to be honest with Jude about this shit.

She doted on Dave, she knew that she did. Dave was _Dave_; no one could really do otherwise for that shy smile and rumbling laugh. But it also didn't mean that Kyle loved Jude less than him. She loved Jude shamelessly, downright adored him, fuck Kyle _knew_ in the honeycombed pits of her bones that she would die for him if she had too.

There was a connection between the three of them, something like a heartbeat or a breath or an electromagnetic pulse, fuck, maybe all of that, wound up tight in their chests. Before she had met Jude and Dave, Kyle couldn't say that she had ever been truly happy, she hadn't known herself. Then one day it all crashed and came together and she hadn't been truly unhappy since. Dave and Jude looked at her and _BOOM_! Kyle knew exactly who she was and what her life was all about.

Kyle didn't want Jude to hurt in any way and she certainly never wanted to be the one to cause him pain. She was smart enough, though (and loved him well enough) to understand that, sometimes, he needed the sting of her honesty more than the warmth of her coddling.

Her throat ached just a bit when she spoke again; she pushed past that though, grounding herself in the bite of her nails against her palms.

"Dave deserves to be happy, Jude," she said. "Expecting him to be miserable because you are isn't remotely healthy—let alone romantic. Martyrs aren't any boy's wet dream, least of all when they're getting nailed on a cross that doesn't stand for something sensible."

He didn't look at her, instead Jude focused on one of tattoos on his left wrist, tracing the thin curve of a hummingbird's wing. His face was closed off, plush bottom lip wedged between his teeth. It was how he usually looked after she had to knock some sense into him, so, she supposed, this was the best she could hope for.

"Just be civil to Kurt and Noah, please." Not really a request, and she knew that he knew it. "S'all I'm asking, Aramis. Them being friends has been good for Dave. Like a lot."

On that note, it seemed like a good time to make her exit. Kyle had said everything that she'd come to say and it was probably a good idea to leave before things got awkward. Or, well, _more_ awkward since things were clearly just that already.

"There's more soup in the fridge," she told Jude as she stood. Kyle gathered her coat and messenger bag. "You should have another bowl before you go to bed and keep up with the fluids."

He nodded, still not looking up at her and Kyle felt her chest tighten a little.

"I love you." She leaned down to swipe his hair back and press her lips against his forehead. He was too warm, sweaty and didn't smell spectacular but Kyle honestly didn't mind; she loved him and that made up for all of that. She knew that she always would too—no matter how irritating, stupid, and thoughtless Jude could be sometimes.

Her kiss lingered above his eye and then on the bridge of his nose before she pulled back, finger-combing his damp hair down as she did. He brushed her wrist with clammy fingers and finally met her eyes, the softest of smiles tugging at his mouth.

"Love you more."

Kyle grinned as she tugged her coat on and headed for the front door. "Doubt that."

Out in the hallway, Kyle paused and leaned heavily for a second or two against mint colored wall.

There was a weight pressing up against her chest, something sharp and brittle that threatened to shatter into thousands of needle-like bits. She pressed a hand to her sternum, just beneath her breasts, and forced herself to breathe deeply, ignoring the ache in her throat.

This wasn't the first time she and Jude had exchanged words about his jealousies when it came to Dave. Kyle sincerely wished that it would be the last but she knew better than to believe that that was ever going to be a possibility. As long as Dave was breathing, Jude was going to want him and, in turn, Kyle was going to have to run interference between them.

This also wasn't the first time Kyle wished that Jude would just grow a pair and tell Dave that he was still (hopelessly) in love with him.

Cursing the day that Jude decided to straddle Dave's cock Kyle headed for the elevator. Besides laying into her best friend over his stupidity, she had a couple of other tasks to accomplish while she was in town. Not super-pressing stuff, grab a few things from the grocery store, check her and Dave's PO Box, maybe blow all of that off and grab a manicure. The possibilities for the day were endless, really.

"Hey, Hot-Stuff, what're you doing wandering around my building?"

Kyle recognized the voice as belonging to Noah if just for the fact he was pretty much the only person who had _ever_ been so smarmy with her, before she saw him. She looked up from her BlackBerry and sure enough, he was walking toward her, that cocksure grin lighting up his face.

"Not much, Princess. Just checking up on Jude while I was in the neighborhood." She tucked her phone away in her back pocket and held up her fist. Noah bumped his thick, rough knuckles against her own without reservation, the force radiating up arm.

Despite the jolt, there was nothing violent in the gesture, no maliciousness stinging the bones of her hand. On the contrary, Kyle saw it as a sign of respect, that he viewed her as an equal. Noah was a great guy with several awesome qualities but quite frankly, _that_ was what she liked best about him.

"What're you up to?" She crossed her arms. "Shouldn't you be in the studio hitting the whammy bar?"

Noah rolled his eyes at her. "_Ugh_. Whammy bar? _Seriously_? Your knowledge of music is awful, please give up on it, you've clearly failed." Kyle stuck her tongue out and he ignored her.

"And also, to answer your question, _nope_." He grinned and shoved his hands into the pockets of his coat, which, Kyle noted, was an actual coat. Apparently, he—or more likely Kurt—had dug it up or picked it out from a rack. Given that it was actually cut to fit Noah's shape, Kyle was going to put all of her money on Kurt.

Not to mention Kurt did not seem the type to pass up any sort of chance to use his best friend as a life-size Ken Doll. Kyle would know, she'd been forcing Dave into playing dress-up since they'd met. Not that her bear would ever complain, he'd gotten plenty of tail thanks to the broad-shoulder and eye-color emphasizing outfits Kyle had picked out for him.

"It's a drum track day," he told her. "Kurt and Tana went to the studio with Finn to make sure Jules doesn't completely destroy his will to live. Pads and I get the day off while he gets the rack 'o demo tracks."

"Nice."

"Very."

They had started walking toward the elevator as they spoke, a fact that Kyle wasn't aware of until the metal doors dinged and slid together.

"So what've you been doing with your day off?"

"_Sleeping_," he said it with sheepish smile while she giggled. Noah ran a hand over the back of his head. "Seriously, I just woke up."

Kyle's jaw dropped and she was only half-kidding when she pushed his shoulder and said, "Oh my god, you lazy shit! It's like two in the afternoon!"

"Dude, I know, I know," he said as they stepped out of the elevator and into the main foyer. "But in my defense _yesterday_ was my turn to hit the gauntlet this week. Even got a booboo when a string snapped." He pushed up the sleeve of his coat to show a red scratch, about six inches long, that ran laterally along the inside of his right forearm.

"Aw, poor, poor Princess, want me kiss it and make it better?"

"I wouldn't say no but something tells me you're just fuckin' with me."

She grinned. "Good answer." Gently she brushed her fingers alongside the mark; it looked a bit nasty. Not stiches nasty but inflamed enough that she felt a genuine pang of sympathy. "You _can_ have some brunch with me, though, if you want."

"Ooh, brunch," Noah said with a waggle of his eyebrows. "Sounds fancy. You sure you wanna take me along?"

"It's only fancy when my friend Claire is involved and that's because she's ridiculous and insists on wearing gaudy hats like she's fucking English royalty." Kyle made a face as she remembered the last time she'd had brunch with Claire; the bitch had taken two hours to get ready. Sometimes, with all of the weird homemade porn spam that she sent and her penchant for lateness, Kyle wondered just why she was friends with the little queen.

"Your Claire would have liked my pre-college-Kurt," Noah told her. "A lot."

Kyle laughed. "Let's be thankful I did in fact meet Kurt post-college then. Because there are days I wanna hit Claire with a bat. Repeatedly."

Like when she sent pictures of Vince wearing a dog collar and sucking on her toes. Claire's sense of humor was _warped_.

Apparently, Noah had agreed to brunch since he was following her out of the building. Kyle tried not to walk too fast, keeping her shoulders even with his; she tended to outpace Dave and Jude when they were with her and it had often been complained about. Side by side, Kyle noted that they were almost the exact same height (no cheating, either, she was wearing her flat boots).

"Bat's a little much," Noah chuckled as they paused at a crosswalk, waiting for the light to change. "But I _did_ spend two years of high school chasing Kurt down and tossing him into dumpsters."

"_Really_?" Kyle couldn't even hope to hide the surprise in her voice. That sort of thing didn't exactly seem the type of thing to breed anything even slightly like friendship and certainly, nothing as close as what Noah shared with Kurt.

"Yeah." He was back to rubbing the base of his skull again; it was his go-to embarrassed gesture, Kyle noticed. Like Jude's twitchy hands or Dave's habit of looking everywhere but the source of the problem. Guilt tinged the edges of his hazel eyes when he glanced over at her. "I was…kind of a dick when I was a teenager."

It was strange, how she didn't like seeing the guilt that formed on Noah's face just then. It bothered her like it did whenever Dave had talked about his life in Lima. Kyle had long ago decided that the place was an abyss of bullshit and this only reaffirmed that. So, like when her best friend got all Lima-Lament-y, she had to chase it away.

"I set fire to my school's gymnasium my junior year," she told him. The light had turned green and Noah stumbled a little because she'd said it just as they started to walk. Wordlessly, she put her hand on his bicep to steady him until they were back on brick pavement.

"It didn't—it wasn't a huge fire," she explained as he continued to stare at her in shock. She didn't blame him; it had not been her finest moment. Actually all four years of high school had been a train wreck for Kyle. Looking back she was really just amazed (and _very_ grateful) that she survived them at all. "No one got hurt and I only spent weekend in juvie. Had to attend mandatory therapy every week until I was twenty-one, though."

Noah continued to stare ate her open-mouthed for the longest time and Kyle had to keep him from running into someone more than once. She was starting to get a little nervous and wish that she'd never tried to be nice when—_finally_—his expression changed. He laughed.

"Wow, just…_wow_." He grinned at her as he clapped her on the back. "You win. You're officially one crazy bitch, Hot-Stuff."

She shrugged good-naturedly. "I try. Here, this is the place." Kyle stopped them in front of a small brick building with an old fashioned wooden sign hanging above the door. It was painted with bright colors, the words _Bubble 'n Squeak_ raised in loopy print beneath a crossed fork and knife.

Noah raised an eyebrow as he looked up at the sign. "Interesting name…"

"Innit?" She bumped his shoulder. "Best stuffed French toast I've had outside of Quebec. C'mon."

Conversation paused as they walked into the restaurant. The hostess, a new girl, seated them in one of the window booths near the pastry case. Their waitress, Cyndi, was also a fresh face, but very polite. She didn't waste much time with small talk and after taking their orders—Kyle requested the house special for both of them before Noah could even crack open his menu—hurried off to get their drinks.

"So, aside from trying to burn down a gym what other Buffy-isms have you pulled?" Noah asked after their drinks had been delivered and Cyndi was out of earshot. His order had surprised her just a little; Noah Puckerman had not struck her as the type of man who enjoyed raspberry-peach sweet tea.

"Buffy-isms?" she really couldn't keep herself from grinning. "Princess, be honest with me; am in the presence of a fellow Whedonite?"

Noah grinned back at her. "I might have the _Firefly/Serenity_ blue-ray combo pack sitting on my shelf at home. Beside my _Buffy_ and _Angel_ collections."

"No _Dollhouse_?"

"Eh. _No_. That shit was too rapey for me." He took a drink of his tea, like the sugar in it could erase the sour face he was making. "Eliza Dushku will always be my favorite slayer but that show was unwatchable after that crap with Sierra's handler."

"Agreed." Kyle held up her iced coffee and Noah clinked his glass against it. "And _amen_ on Faith being the best. She was my second favorite character."

"And your number one?"

She winked at him over her drink. "Take a wild guess."

"Hmm…" Noah settled back in his seat, stroking an imaginary beard. "Well, it _is_ you, so this might be tricky, but I'm going to say…_Spike_."

Kyle applauded. "_Very_ good, Princess. Very good, indeed."

"Not that good," he chuckled. "I mean, come on, aside from Giles, _everyone_ in the main cast was really annoying."

"Ugh, they _were_," she laughed.

"Especially fuckin' Xander."

"_Yes_!" She slapped the table. "Dave and Jude _hate_ it when I bring up how whiny the original three Scoobies were. It's like I'm committing sacrilege for pointing out flaws in the holy trinity or some shit."

"Yeah, Jules almost stabbed me with a violin bow when I said I wished it had been Willow who died and not Tara."

"God, _yes_! I missed her so, so, _so_ much! She was the only sane person around there!"

"Not to mention her replacement was the _worst_."

"Oh fuck, I loathed Kennedy. Insipid little shit."

"Amen."

Geek talk continued through brunch. Between bites of stuffed French toast and bacon (which Noah ate with a bowed head, as if he was waiting for his mother to catch him), Kyle discovered that he was a die-hard Mel Brooks fan. Young Frankenstein, Blazing Saddles, and History of the World Part I were on constant repeat on his laptop when Dorothy North was on the road. She was pleasantly surprised to find that Noah enjoyed the Harry Potter series, and like Dave and Jude, couldn't stand the movie adaptations.

Besides arguing Batman vs. Superman Kyle learned a few fun facts about her companion. He had a little sister, Naomi, who was about seven years younger and currently working on her bachelor's up in Maine. She was a film studies major—or doc nerd, as her brother described—and wanted to work with NOVA once she graduated. Their mother was a nurse and had moved to Albuquerque right after Naomi was out of the house. He didn't see or talk to either of them very often; distance, work, and life in general got in the way.

Plus, his mother was still a champion nagger so Noah tended to avoid her calls. Especially on Saturday afternoons when he knew she'd just be coming home from temple.

In all, Kyle would have pegged the meal as one of the more pleasant she'd spent out with someone who wasn't Dave or Jude in a very long time. She really shouldn't have been surprised when the landslide started. Things had gone too well with Jude that morning, she should have expected some sort of cosmic bitch-slap.

"I got it." Noah reached past her to pluck the check from the waitress' hand before Kyle could accept it.

"Hey! Not cool, I invited _you_ to brunch, the bill's on me, dude." She scowled and attempted to grab the check back but he slid back, dangling it just out of reach. "Dick!"

He winked at her as he pulled out his wallet. "Calm down, Baby, I'll let you pay on the next date."

She rolled her eyes. "I'm pretty sure there has to be a first date for a second one, Princess."

"Fine. On our first date you can totally pay." He turned briefly away to hand cash over to the waitress. "Run, before she tries to grab that. Oh, and keep the change." Cyndi listened, which was very prudent of her; Kyle was indeed thinking of pouncing.

"You're an ass," she told him as they stood.

"You _love_ my ass." He wiggled said posterior in her direction and winked. "Admit it; finest ass you've ever laid eyes on."

He _did_ have a nice one, that much Kyle couldn't deny. However, she had to be at least a little bit contrary; she wouldn't forgive herself otherwise. "Meh, I've seen nicer."

Noah elbowed her lightly as they walked back into the chilly March air. "It's not fair to compare me to James Marsters. For reals. Though, in high school I _think _my abs could have given his a run for some money."

"Ooh, that is _quite_ the claim. I may demand pictures and an affidavit from Kurt to believe it, Princess."

He pressed a hand over his heart, feigning hurt, which he didn't do very well since he was laughing. "Hey, come on. Pictures? _Kurt_? That hurts." Another smirk curled on Noah's lips. "Baby, I've told you before, just ask me and the goods are _all_ yours."

"You are the _worst_!" she laughed, bumping her shoulder against his. Noah bumped back.

"Actually, nine out of ten ladies say I'm the best." If Kyle hadn't already been doubled-over giggling, then Noah's eyebrow waggle would have done it. She hooked her fingers into the sleeve of his coat; while it was doubtful she'd actually fall over, Kyle didn't want to chance anything on the slick sidewalk.

"Jesus Christ, Princess, trying to kill me today?"

"No, dummy, I'm trying to get you to go out with me."

She almost missed it. Kyle was usually quite perceptive; in fact, it was a trait she took a lot of pride in. Given how utterly clueless her nearest and dearest could be on a regular basis (Neil was the _only_ one she didn't worry about too often) it was a skill she literally had to pick up. Someone had to be not tripping over their own feet while looking at the clouds. So, when she caught the undertone to Noah's voice, Kyle felt like she'd crashed face-first into the concrete.

In her defense, he was bearing on the subtle side. The note of longing in his voice was a quiet one, if she hadn't looked up and seen the sincerity on his face she might have let it just slip on by with roll of her eyes. There was no missing it now, though, and part of her immediately regretted that.

"What?" It was quite literally the only thing that Kyle could think as his honesty smacked her in the face.

That nervous gesture, the neck rub, was back in action, but Noah didn't look sheepishly to the side this time. His gray-hazel eyes were locked right on hers, like he was scared to look away and lose his nerve.

He was blushing. Holy shit, he was blushing. It was faint beneath his tan complexion but Kyle could _not_ mistake the slight pink climbing up his neck and over his cheeks.

Noah's tongue darted across his lips and Kyle saw a flash of anxiously grinding teeth before he spoke. "Kyle, come on. I like you. A lot. I mean…shit, you're _awesome_." The conviction as he said that last word was startling; nice to hear, yes but still surprising too. "Hell, you're probably _the_ most awesome girl I've ever met. Really, you just…you kick my ass at _everything_."

"You know, a therapist would probably take issue with that last part." It was nice to know that her auto-sarcasm wasn't on the fritz like her powers of insight. Pleasure always had to come from the little things, though, she supposed.

"A therapist would take issue with most of what say and do," he chuckled. He didn't play along with her deflection for more than a few seconds, though. In an instant, the laughter in his eyes had evaporated and was replaced with that same nervous energy that crackled in them before.

Part of her wanted to make that go away; a frighteningly bigger part than Kyle ever would have expected. She liked Noah, a lot. A _whole_ lot, until right then she hadn't even realized how much. Contrary to all of her teasing, she'd always thought he was attractive—though, the way he flirted was _terrible_. But in the end, that was just part of his charm.

And _fuck_ was Noah charming when he wanted to be. There was something in his smile that could melt the unwary; she'd seen him turn shop girls and even Maggie into giggling idiots with just a flash of white teeth. It was scary and thrilling and it reminded Kyle a little of getting her legs kicked out from under her.

He had taken hold of her hands, she didn't even notice that he was reaching for them until the warmth of skin against her own registered. The texture of them was a little surprising, Noah's hands; hard spots from guitar playing dotted his palms but they weren't actually rough. Again, Kyle suspected that it had to be Kurt's influence; it was scary how she could picture the singer grabbing heavy-duty hand lotion and forcing his best friend to slather it on.

She was going to say yes, really she was. Kyle liked Noah—probably more than she consciously realized—and he liked her. They liked the same things and he wasn't intimidated by her sarcastic attitude. It felt…right.

"_Don't worry, Girl-Balls, one day your Prince Charming'll stumble along and you'll be normal too."_

Kyle's brother Rod, who truly had it coming when she drugged him and sent him to Guatemala sans passport, had some very emphatic ideas about girls, and, by extension, Kyle. Girls acted giddy in the presence of boys. Girls blushed when boys flirted with them. Girls got excited at the slightest bit of attention. Girls lived to be in relationships. Girls needed relationships. Girls must want to be in relationships.

Rod might include Kyle in the category "girl", but Kyle did not, so she'd always told herself (mostly thanks to him). A lot of who she was responded to that still; her competitive streak (though that could be attributed to Eddie and Ernie too), her adamant independence, and, most relevant to the time, her views on relationships.

That's why the way Noah looked at her made her stomach bottom out the second any sort of pleasure began. He threatened a few fundamental things she _knew_ about herself. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing; fuck maybe it was even nice. But whatever it eventually sifted out to be, right at that moment it was _scary_.

Kyle didn't handle being scared very well; she was the first to admit that. Maybe it was because there wasn't a lot that _could_ frighten her but what was certain was that one of two things would happen when the rare paranoia snuck up under her skin. The first was that Kyle would see red and start swinging a 'la Pride 2015. The second was to light a match and _run_.

Luckily, for everyone, though, age had turned impulse number two into more of a figurative thing.

She pulled her hands from his, quickly sliding them into the pockets of her jeans; hoping the texture of loose coins and scratchy denim would erase the heat of his skin. Kyle had to duck her head down and stare at the laces of her boots; she didn't want to feel worse when the hurt flared across Noah's face. She didn't quite hate herself that much just yet.

Or, maybe, Kyle already hated herself too much, depending on how it was looked at.

"Kyle—"

"I'm not relationship-girl, Noah."

Even looking down at her feet Kyle could feel his eyebrows dart up and his jaw drop. "Uh…I—are we Buffy-talking again?"

"No! Well…I guess in a way…I mean that's definitely a fucking _Buffyism_." Kyle made a face as it hit her. "Ugh. I sound like a Scooby. Fantastic. Now I need a shower and a Firefly marathon."

"Hey, _fantastic _first date idea! What about a bubble bath though? I think that'd be way better than a shower pre-Firefly marathon."

Kyle had to look up at him when he said that, if just to drive home her scowl. "Dude, stop flirting, I'm trying to make a point, here."

"Sorry." He didn't _look_ very sorry and Kyle almost derailed her own argument to tell him that.

She settled for another scowl, hoping it was authoritative enough to work on him like it usually would on Dave or Jude. He didn't look as on edge as they might but at least she had his attention.

Which, given what she was going to do, possibly something she didn't really want all that badly.

"Listen." She bit down on her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth until she could nearly taste blood. "I like you. I—I like you a lot, Noah. And—please don't let this inflate your head too much—but you are cute. Very cute. And the whole legit, as in paid-to-perform-for-real-crowds, guitarist thing? Not gonna lie; _total_ shameful high school fantasy for me."

"Ooh, dirty sex in the wings?"

"More like experimenting with the vibrations of an amplifier in an empty theater."

"_Hot_."

"Thank you." Another derailment almost happened thanks to some very dirty thoughts involving Noah and a Gibson Les Paul. She managed to hang on, though.

"I'm sensing a 'but' coming on, here," Noah said as he crossed his arms. Kyle noted the disappointment creeping in his gray-hazel eyes and her stomach twisted.

"But, like I said, I'm not relationship-girl." She shrugged and burrowed her hands more deeply into her pockets. "Dating has _never_ been something I've been good at. I'm too…_me_ for romance or anything. I don't have a romantic bone in my body; it's all snark, rage, and indignation mixed with calcium in here."

Noah snorted at that. "Okay, first off, great description. Second, did you ever think that maybe that's _why_ I like you?"

"While that is seriously one of the nicest things I've ever heard, that doesn't change the fact that I'm not looking for a boyfriend." She didn't want to be a bitch—oh how she _really_ didn't want to be a bitch—but she couldn't back down on this either. On went the don't-argue-with-me face (which, she'd been told resembled her scary-face just a little too much) and Kyle crossed her arms as she met Noah's gaze squarely.

"We're friends," she said, using a tone of voice that was a little gentler than the look on her face. Telling a friend you weren't interested was perhaps the shittiest feeling on the planet; made even shittier for Kyle by the fact that it was a bit of a fib. "And that's all I want to be. Now, can we please go back dick jokes?"

For a minute, Kyle was very sure that she was in trouble. Noah's face read anything but 'fine'; hurt, disappointed, regretful, all of those things were definitely there and none of that seemed ready to start laughing. Perhaps tell her to fuck off and demand why she always had to be so complicated (or that could have just been the voices in her own head). She was sure, in those few tense seconds, that nothing would ever be okay between them again. And then…

"Your life is a dick joke." He wore a half-smile as his shoulder bumped hers. It was weak, less than half-hearted even, but it was still better than what she should be hoping for. Honestly, she wasn't sure that things were going to be all right between them in the long run; but for now, Kyle was going to take what she could get.

Bumping back, she smirked as they started walking down the sidewalk again. "Hey, anything Dave tells you about college is probably only half-true, thanks."

OoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoOoO

Walking through the door that night, Kyle felt heavy and unsettled. There were a thousand things milling around in her head and she had a great desire to be anywhere else _but_ inside her own head.

She was intent on being in a mood for the rest of the evening, maybe locking herself in the studio and playing in her paints. With all the tough talk that had come with that day, she felt like any sort of conversation would kill her.

Then she opened the kitchen door and the scent of spices and fresh-baked bread hit her. One of the good copper soup pots was sitting on the stove, a yet to be cleaned cutting board, knife, and hand blender laying close by. She could see Dave's very spotty Batman apron hung on the island counter's edge, indicating that he wasn't finished with it. From deeper in the house came the light hum of the radio and Kyle could see the lights on in the living room. Dave was on one of the couches, curled under a blanket with an open book and she could see smudges of flour on his nose and shirt collar.

The messiness of the day seemed to ebb—just a _little_—when Dave looked up and smiled at her.

"Hey, I was just about to call you," he said. "Did you grab dinner already? I making tomato soup." He sat down his book and slung his arm over the couch's back, wordlessly inviting her to join him. Kyle raised an eyebrow and earned an eye roll as well as the corner of the blanket being thrown back. She slid in, hogging the blanket—after she pulled off her boots, of course. Dave gave a belabored sigh but still hooked his arm around her shoulders.

Pressing herself into Dave's side, Kyle gave her best Jude impression. "Is there going to be grilled cheese too?" Jude may have had a patent on big eyes, but Kyle was fairly sure her pout was better.

Dave rolled his eyes again but it came with a laugh. "Well, I _guess_ the fresh bread does have to be used sometime."

"What about dessert? Am I getting dessert?"

"Pushin' it, Porthos."

"_Fine_. Wine in a mug at least?"

Dave pretended to think for a second. "Well…all right. I guess we can be classy tonight."

"You're the best, Athos."

She closed her eyes and buried her face against Dave's collarbone, losing herself for a moment in the scent of flour, basil, and home. All of the mulling little voices scratching at the back of her head ebbed to a dull roar and she held onto that quiet.

"Hey, you okay?" Dave asked. His arm tightened around her shoulders and she felt the concern in the tension of the muscles pressed to her back.

She shrugged; both not wanting to talk about it and knowing that saying _anything_ about her conversation with Jude was not a good idea. Instead, Kyle did the third thing that she'd become very good at over the years.

"Meh, just stuff."

She could _feel_ The Eyebrow going up but Dave, mercifully, didn't press her. He simply kissed her forehead and hugged.

"Stuff sucks sometimes."

"Yep."

It was very nice to know that there was at least one man in her life who would never try and make it messier than it already was.

* * *

**Author's Note Deux: **So, part of me wants to apologize for taking so long with this chapter and promise it won't happen anymore. However, the logical part of me knows it'd be a big ol' lie, so, I won't insult myself or any of you with it.

I like writing Comic Cons, it's a nice little escape, but see that's precisely it: fanfiction is an escape for me. Right now I'm in the middle of obtaining a degree, working, and most of my free time has been given over to the research and writing of my original stuff that, hopefully, I'm going to be paid for in the not-too-distant future. I hope you all understand why Comic Cons has become a back burner project for me given all of that.

Oh, and also, if you'd like to, you can blame my boyfriend. In the words of Patton Oswalt, nothing kills creativity like being in a (mostly) stable relationship and regular sex. So, yes, everyone please blame Travis.

And Skyrim, Dragon Age, and my PS3 in general. They're culprits too.


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